I didn’t go home. Lulu and Dave would have asked questions, and I didn’t have any answers yet. On Saturday night all the coffeehouses are crowded and loud, and the bars are worse because the patrons are not just bored but drunk as well. I wanted to be left alone, really alone, so I could shake the foggy residue of the poltergeists of Pine Breeze and take time to analyze what I’d found there.

I opted for a small restaurant, an Italian joint whose name I always miss by at least one vowel. I like the place. It’s quiet and lowlit, with small booths set in walled-off sections that lend the illusion of privacy. I ordered a glass of wine from a blond waitress who probably wasn’t old enough to serve it and who definitely should have asked for my ID, but didn’t. She obediently brought the drink without any questions. After she’d gone, I opened the grimy file across the table and picked through the contents with all the precision of an archeologist. Any scrap of paper might be a clue.

The first dirty envelope was addressed to Leslie Moore c/o Pine Breeze in solid, precise handwriting in black felt-tipped pen. This letter betrayed only a little about the writer, but it revealed an entire world about my mother.

Dear L—

I hate them for reading these, and I hate them for reading what you sent—but please tell me at least that you’re all right. Why won’t you write? When I called there the woman assured me that you were free to do so, but she said you hadn’t written anything to anyone hardly since you got there. She said you’ve refused us all—but you must not refuse me. You must write—or I swear I will come down there myself and take you away! I’ll tell her to stop sending the money and then they’ll have to let you go, whether you like it or not.

You said when you went in there that it was only for a short time, and you promised me you’d write. There are other hospitals, you know. There are other places you could go, places that are made for girls with our problem. I don’t see why you want to stay out in that god-awful place. I could be with you—I could support you in this decision. Just say the word and I will make a place for you here, no matter what she thinks. I swear, if I don’t hear from you soon, I’ll stop the money.

—A

I set the letter on the table and swigged at the wine like it was whiskey. At the table next to mine, the diners had left their signed credit card receipt on a small black tray. I snagged their abandoned pen and attacked A’s letter with it.