I texted Ben, asking if he could meet me. He answered immediately, suggesting the café at Pershing Square. I walked down Park and through Grand Central Terminal, exiting at Forty-Second Street. Even before I crossed the street, I spotted Ben. He was sprawling in one of the café’s metal chairs, casually dressed in torn jeans, a green button-down shirt, and scruffy leather boots. As I got closer, I saw he was reading Ernest Hemingway. Clearly he had a manual on macho male journalist tropes.

“Deirdre.” He smiled at me and waved, setting the paperback aside.

“Hi,” I said, sitting down.

“I thought this would be convenient for you, since you’re coming in on the 7 train.”

There was an awkward silence between us while I mentally filed through our minimal exchanges. “How do you know I live in Queens? And how did you get my number?”

“Caroline told me.” He said it as if it were obvious.

“Why would she?”

“Because she figured we’d be natural allies, I guess,” Ben said.

“Then why didn’t she give me your contact info?” As I asked the question, I thought of the photo she’d sent me. Aside from letting me know Ben existed, it hadn’t given me much.

“I bet she meant to. Caroline had a lot to deal with.”

“My sister never mentioned you to me. What was going on between you two?”

There was a startled silence. “Wow. Your sister always said you were direct,” Ben said. “She wasn’t kidding.”

I stared at him, refusing to fill the silence. He caved first, sort of.

“Just because someone asks you a question doesn’t mean you have to answer it.” Ben smiled at me, and it felt like he was used to getting his way with that grin. “Not that I’d want my interview subjects to realize that.”

“I know Caro and Theo were living separate lives. I’m not judging you.”

“Thanks for your permission.”

I’d been putting down Ben’s reaction the day before to the fact I’d surprised him at his building, but I was starting to think he was just an asshole. At that moment, a waiter homed in. Ben ordered black coffee—predictably—and I asked for water. I should’ve specified “tap” because the waiter returned quickly with a small bottle of Pellegrino.

“I wanted to meet you because I need information,” I said. “Did Caro send you a letter to read after she died?”

“I can’t talk about that.”

I pulled up the image of the message and held it up. If I fail, you have to do it. I am putting all of my faith and trust in you. My son’s future depends on it.

The color drained out of his face. He wasn’t so cocky now. “Where did she send that?”

“It’s to this random-sounding account. Is that you?”