But as she’s leaving, she spots an envelope on the kitchen table, Mr. Keller’s name written on it in Annie’s neat, girlish handwriting. And Claudette can’t help herself. Her curiosity overwhelms her rush to get home. Because why is little Annie leaving notes around the house for a middle-aged widower?

So she unfolds it and begins to read.

37

I arrive early for the appointment with my dad’s lawyer, and I’m seated in a pseudo-antique leather chair, trimmed in brass nail heads, to wait. The receptionist, a woman with a tiny mouth and oversized gold studs in her ears, doesn’t even look up. I scroll through my phone aimlessly, barely glancing at the news stories that clog my feeds. I’m nervous for reasons I can’t fully grasp, and I worry the space between my molars with my tongue, clench and unclench my teeth.

I’ve met with Kelsey Rodriguez before, in those strange, smudged weeks following my dad’s death, when I cleaned out his apartment, started the process to sell it. But I haven’t seen her since. The amount of work I still need to do to settle his estate has been daunting, a minefield I’ve been steadfastly avoiding.

On the wall opposite my chair is an oil painting of horses running through the desert, their legs kicking up sand, the sun beating down a brassy yellow. I wonder who picks the art for law office waiting rooms, if this painting, with its hurried movement, is supposed to spur me into some sort of action, to remind clients of the lives they have to live while they collect their dead relatives’ assets or assume their debts.

Kelsey’s assistant, a short guy with a receding hairline, comes to get me soon enough, leading me through a maze of cubicles with ergonomic wheelie chairs before we enter Kelsey’s corner office with western-facing windows overlooking the Hudson.

“Sue, how have you been?” She’s a tall, older Cuban-American woman with a high forehead to match her height and salt-and-pepper hair. She clutches my hand like it’s a small animal she doesn’t want to squeeze too tightly, before gesturing me over to the chair opposite her mahogany desk.

She hands me some documents to sign, statements to read, and patiently describes each item and clause like I’m in school again. Her composure reassures me, and soon I find myself spilling over, telling her about my personal life, fully aware that the firm is charging me a small fortune a minute to monologue. I don’t mention Anneliese, but I do tell her I’m looking for a new job, that in terms of my future, I’m feeling a little aimless.

She smiles knowingly. “You and every other millennial out there. You said you were in marketing?” I nod, giving a brief history of my job.