I scan the documents that remain. An invoice for Annabeth’s headstone. A bill of sale for the Colorado cattle ranch for twelve thousand dollars. A birth certificate for a Percy Grover, born in Cleveland, Ohio, in 1875. The bill of sale for a house in Los Angeles, dated four months before I married Martin; a marriage certificate to Candace, dated July 1897; two certificates of stillborn births—boys—delivered dead to Candace and Martin Hocking. The first in November 1897—which means Candace had been with child when she married Martin—and the second in March 1898. But there is no death certificate for Candace.

I rummage through the other folios. I find maps of California and Colorado, bank statements—only in the name of Martin Hocking; the largest balance is three thousand dollars. And then a collection of obituaries from different California newspapers. The obituaries are all for men. Martin circled the names of surviving daughters and where they lived. Some of the obituaries are from newspapers that were printed only a few weeks ago; others are older. Among the older pages is George Dixon’s obituary, and there within it, in a penciled circle, is Belinda’s name.

“That’s how he found you,” I tell her, though that fact is obvious to us both at the moment.

Belinda stares at her name as if she doesn’t recognize it as her own.

“Why?” she finally says, several seconds later. “Why me?”

I leaf through the obituaries. The men had all been of means, and all had been preceded in death by their wives, so their surviving children had surely inherited from them. That being the case, what had Martin hoped to gain from a marriage to Belinda? A roadside inn is no great boon. He had to have chosen her for another reason, and even as I’m wondering what it is, I think I might already know where to go to puzzle it out. The boiler room will tell me if I am right.

But first I rifle through what I am able to of the rest of the desk. I find a locked strongbox the size of a jewelry case, the title to Martin’s automobile and the agreement records for its garage, and receipts from the grocer and butcher and the Emporium. I find pay stubs from Martin’s years as a stable hand in Los Angeles. I find no files at all related to his working as an assessor for an insurance company—not one—and nothing that tells me what Martin works on at this desk when he’s home.

I decide to try the hairpins on the strongbox, and as I lift it out of the drawer, I spy an envelope that was resting underneath it.

The envelope is addressed to Martin at the Los Angeles address, postmarked six months before I married him. The return address is Las Palomas Sanatorium in Tucson, Arizona. I turn the envelope over and lift its broken flap. It has been opened. I pull out the letter inside and begin to read: