I’d never felt so lost. I didn’t have a job, and in spite of Hugo Laraya’s assurances, the notion of suing my former employer made me green around the gills. I didn’t have a sister anymore, and my conversations with Ben and even Jude gave me a queasy sense that, even though I loved Caro, I hadn’t really known her well. I didn’t have anyone to talk to honestly about my sister. Reagan cared and wanted to help, but she mostly knew Caro through the filter of what I’d told her. Jude was the opposite: she understood Caro, but wanted to filter uncomfortable information away from me. And Ben had refused to answer my question about their relationship, which only made me believe that my sister really had been stepping out on her husband.

There was only one thing I could think of to do: get as much information as I could directly from Caro herself. I got on the 7 train at Grand Central and headed east.

When I was a little kid, I actually liked hanging out at my father’s garage in Willets Point, also known as the Iron Triangle of Queens, a stone’s throw from the old Shea Stadium. He let me sit behind the steering wheels, pretending I was a Formula One race-car driver. But it had been a long time since I’d gone over willingly. The place had a newish sign—CRAWLEY’S REPAIRS—soaring above the rusty Quonset hut, but otherwise, it hadn’t changed, even though the area around it was being redeveloped. Naturally, my father was the holdout against progress.

I didn’t see him as I approached. I was in the broad driveway, breathing from my diaphragm, steeling myself to see him, when I noticed his legs sticking out from underneath a car, the knee-high socks he insisted on wearing rolled down to his ankles, a weird habit he’d always had. It made me think of the beginning of The Wizard of Oz, and how the Wicked Witch of the East was crushed.

I tried to speak, but my voice felt rusty. It had been years since I’d said a word to him, and I didn’t know how to start.

I hesitated for so long that he had time to finish whatever repair he was making and slide out from under the car. There were smudges of grease on his hands and forehead. He jolted as if he thought I was a ghost and banged his head against the car.

“Deirdre?” he asked, as if I were a mirage. A smile crept across his face. “I’m so glad you . . .”

“This isn’t a social visit,” I said sharply. “I need to see the last message Caro emailed you.”