“No it’s not.” Tritia leaned forward. “You know what’s going on in this town. And you know there’s no way we can get the mailman. We have no proof to back up any of our allegations.” She gestured toward the hallway and the den beyond. “Now we have proof.”

“We have nothing. Do you know what will happen? He will say that he only delivers the mail and is not responsible for its contents, and he’ll deny any knowledge of this. You know that as well as I do.”

Tritia stared into her friend’s eyes. She was right. Much as she hated to admit it, she was right. Irene knew exactly what the mailman would do.

“At least let me call Doug, tell him. He’ll get rid of it for you. You don’t want a—”

“No,” Irene said. “I don’t want anyone to touch it. And no one but you will ever see it.” She lowered her voice and Tritia felt a chill creep down her spine. “It’s evil.”

Tritia nodded, feigning for her friend’s sake an understanding she did not feel. Irene was slipping, she thought. This had pushed her dangerously close to the edge, and if something else occurred, it might push her all the way over.

Of course, that was exactly what the mailman wanted.

Tritia stood. “I have to go,” she said.

“You can’t go to the police,” Irene said.

“I really think you should tell someone. This isn’t right.”

“No.”

Tritia met her friend’s gaze, then sighed. “Okay,” she said. “It’s up to you.” She walked to the door, turning around before opening the screen. “Call me if you need anything,” she said. “Anything. Doug and I can be right over, if there’s an emergency.”

“Thanks,” Irene said. “But I’ll be fine.” She smiled. “Maybe I just won’t open my mailbox.”

“That’s probably not a bad idea.”

The old woman laughed, and for a moment she sounded almost normal. “Good-bye, hon,” she said. “I’ll see you.”

Tritia walked slowly down the porch steps. “ ‘Bye.”

She heard the sound of the door being locked behind her as she walked out to the car, the deadbolt being thrown.

Tritia waved as she drove off, not checking to see if her wave was returned. She turned onto the street, heading toward home. She’d known that the mailman was responsible for the deteriorating state of affairs in town, for the unpaid bills, the misdirected mail, the hate letters, and yes, probably for the deaths. But the extent to which he was willing to go in order to get someone, the extent to which he was able to go in order to get someone, had never been brought home more forcefully than when she had looked in that box and seen the toe. Such random but well-thought-out malevolence was impossible for her to comprehend.