John didn’t look up, but Vera cleared her throat. ‘Sam Alby, who you had the pleasure of meeting tonight, sure has a way with words, doesn’t he?’

‘He left you that note,’ I said. It wasn’t exactly a question.

‘Most likely,’ she said. ‘Or maybe it was one of his loser friends. Or his wife, for all I know, over here, checking on things. You’ve never met her, have you?’

‘His wife? No, I don’t even –’

‘The notes started in April, just after the classes ended,’ John said, cutting me off. ‘They come pretty regularly now. Got this one just last week.’

The graffiti flashed to mind. It had to be the same guy. ‘Have you told the police?’

Vera began ticking off her fingers. ‘About the letters, yes. About the tires slashed on John’s truck. The graffiti on our gallery. And about the dead rabbit that showed up on our doorstep, too.’

‘A dead animal? God.’

Vera nodded. ‘Just a few days ago, in fact. Thank god we don’t have a dog or a cat or something, or else I’m pretty sure we wouldn’t anymore.’

I closed my eyes. Suddenly, I wanted to be with Dusty, holding him as close as I could.

When I opened them again, Vera was scratching at the corner of her lip. John, for his part, had returned to staring at his drink. He looked almost green.

‘The police don’t care,’ Vera said. ‘Think it’s just some drunk teenager. Or maybe a hunter, annoyed by the anti-gun bumper stickers we used to have on our cars.’

‘I still wonder who down at the station came up with that creative line of reasoning,’ John said, briefly looking up, his eyes catching Vera’s.

‘We know it’s him,’ Vera said firmly. Taking the note from the table, she folded it and meticulously slid it back into the envelope, as if she’d done it many times before, and returned it to the drawer. ‘We’re not even from Brooklyn. No offense,’ she added with a small smile, returning to her place next to John, setting a hand protectively on his thigh. ‘But I suppose it doesn’t matter to him. The Daily Freeman does pieces on Brooklynites coming up here often enough, I think he lumps us all together.’ She reached for her drink, took a cautious sip, and turned to John. On the floor, her foot tapped, impatient. ‘Do you believe me now?’

He took a sip, but his mouth puckered, as if the whiskey had somehow gone rancid.

‘Does he believe you about what?’ I asked.