Grant writes: Can you put me in touch with her family? Her parents?

He sends the message, and he sits and waits, but there is no answer. There is never an answer.

So Grant sends a note to the Sender: Is this Anya? Are you my mother?

64

Iris

The Marble Hills apartment complex is so 1970s in its look, Iris thinks it could be named Macrame Hills. Two stories, built of dark stone and arched wooden doors all facing the parking lot, with old-fashioned numbers on brass plates. Maybe twenty apartments, ten on each floor. She parks and stands by her car, wondering if the police have already connected Marland to this place. Did he even rent it under his name?

There’s a manager’s office, but a sign says no one’s in at the moment.

Iris waits ten minutes and then a car pulls in cautiously to the steep parking lot, a young woman finding a spot for her truck. She glances at Iris with a moment of curiosity.

Iris puts on a friendly smile. “Excuse me. I’m looking for a friend who lives here. I don’t know which unit is his.”

The young woman raises an eyebrow. “I’m kind of new. I don’t know everyone.”

“He’s tall, handsome, early forties, dark haired, professor glasses.”

“Ah. The night owl. He lives in number ten.” She points to the far end of the apartment wing.

“Oh. Thanks.”

The woman gives her another glance and Iris walks to number ten. She waits for the woman to go inside her apartment.

She hopes the new neighbor is right. There’s no key hidden under the mat or on the doorframe. Of course not. She walks past the corner of the building, heading toward the back. Each apartment has a small balcony and his, being on the end, means she can crawl over the railing without being noticed. Beyond his patio the ground gives way to a further slope and downward to a creek that leads down to the lakeshore, so no one will see her unless they’re walking to the lake.

She glances, but there’s no one on the other balconies. She kneels by the balcony door. It’s locked. She grabs a rock and smashes the glass. And then again and again. It gives way. It’s hugely loud. Anyone who is home in this wing is probably going to hear it. She doesn’t care. Enough of the glass gives way that she crawls through, taking care not to cut herself.