When we parted that night, Becky thanked me again for calling her. She had been surprised to hear from me and asked me why I reached out just then. I confessed that I wasn’t really sure. She told me then that she’d almost called me, to ask if we might have lunch or coffee, and wasn’t sure why she felt that way either.

“Destiny, I guess,” she finally said, and asked if she could hug me. There was something about her, a straightforwardness and complete lack of cant, that was so appealing.

Two days later, Esme texted from yet another phone number. I’ll tell you the truth. I promise this time.

Quickly, I texted back: All this time you’ve wanted to see me. You wanted to warn Stefan he was in danger. You wanted to tell me something big. Then you just disappeared. I know you are afraid. But if you know some surprising truth about that night, just tell me.

She texted back: It’s not just about that night. It’s other things, too. If I tell you the truth, you can’t tell anyone else.

Not even Stefan?

No one else. Don’t talk to Jill. Don’t talk to the police. No one. Things could happen to me. I could get killed.

No one’s going to kill you.

You don’t know. You don’t understand!

And then she was gone again. I nearly threw the phone across the room. Sleep was lost to me now. I finally got up and paced until the sun rose. I wondered if I would ever be able to see a sunrise again and think only about the weather. With Molly at my heels, I desultorily inspected our raised garden, the wreckage of the tomatoes I planted every year, determined every time to give the tender plants my most valiant effort, an effort which I then, at least for the past several years, abandoned by July. As if reproaching me for my desertion, many fat fruits hung heavy on the vine. Others were regrettably smashed on the ground. I made a pouch of my sweatshirt and began to fill it... I would make myself busy, I would make marinara sauce and freeze it. I had once been a devout gardener; I used to have ordinary pursuits.