She meant the drugs Stefan used on the night Belinda died, a combination that could have killed him and, indirectly, killed her. The paramedics told me later my son might easily have suffered a heart attack from all those toxins, but he was rescued by his own youth. But the other thing the girl said was a fishhook that snagged. Whoever she meant by “they,” could it possibly matter, today of all the days? Then it occurred to me, and a hot stout taste forced its way up my throat when I wondered if Stefan realized, because of course he did know, that this glacial January day, was the three-year anniversary of Belinda’s death? How, in the accumulation of all the incidents and images, the words spoken and suppressed, the events seen or sensed, from the dank meaty stink of the prison visiting room to the peachy aura of Belinda’s cologne that floated around her everywhere she went, from my son’s blood-crusted palms to my mother’s white gloves beside her on the bench in the courtroom, from the harsh voices of the protestors, Stefan’s hoarse shouts for me from the locked ward, Jep’s strong hands under my elbows when I stumbled the morning we returned from a walk to find the word MURDERER scrawled in red paint on our garage door, to the heft of the loaf of homemade bread I pushed through the car window as Stefan set out to join Belinda at college, all towed behind me like shells and weeds in a huge strange net through a tidal flow. How, through these years to this glacial day, had I managed to forget the anniversary of that singular event?

“I was right there,” she said.

“You were not there. I know who was there.”

“Nobody saw me.” The caller said crazy things, but she did not herself seem crazy. What awful event could have made someone so young act this way? What life circumstances would shape a person to make such calls to strangers?

“Okay, okay,” I said. “I’ll listen. Not right now. I’m driving in a blizzard...”

She said, “I know.”

Of course. It was suddenly obvious. This person, whoever she was, knew Stefan was getting out today. She was a prison crank, a crime junkie.

“How about I call you some other time?”

“I should tell someone,” she said, sobs gargling through her words. “I should tell everyone.”

“Tell me.”

“I can’t. But listen. Tell Stefan not to talk about that night. Would you do that? That’s the important thing. Tell him not to say anything about that night. And tell him I’m sorry.”

I thought she would hang up then. But she did not. Once more the damp sound of her crying filled the void. Maybe she was one of the groupies who’d never met Belinda but who identified with her, as they should, as they must.