Edie’s face looked strained. “I’m going to smoke,” she announced, and with an unsteady hand removed a pack of cigarettes from her purse, shook out a cigarette, and lit up. “He sent those letters to me, to me,” she repeated, her voice rising.

“I know,” Inga said quietly. “I know, and if you’d wanted to, you could have burned them or cut them up or blackened out what you never wanted a soul to read—all that was in your power. Don’t you see, Edie, we have to try to come to an understanding, because my daughter and your son are sister and brother. You’ve sold the letters to an anonymous person who could do many things with them, and I think it would be fair to tell me, to tell us, if there’s something in them that might hurt Joel or Sonia someday.”

Edie’s bottom lip began to shake, her mouth contorted, the tears fell, and I heard a deep noise break from her throat.

I reached over to her, placed my hand over hers, and patted it for a moment.

Out of nowhere, Linda erupted, “You think you’re perfect, don’t you?” she said, leaning toward Inga, her face suddenly animated. “Look at you, playing the noble mother in order to wheedle the dope out of Edie. It’s revolting. Glamour-puss Ph.D., writing those pretentious books showing off how smart you think you are, how truly special and superior: Ms. Perfect with the perfect daughter and the perfect Tribeca apartment, widow to the Late Great Cult Hero Max Blaustein. I knew I’d find some dirt on you. You needed taking down a peg or two. You want to know why I bothered? That’s why I bothered.” This speech was delivered through clenched teeth with an unmistakable snarl accenting her final word.

My sister’s mouth opened, then she put her hand to her chest, as if the verbal assault had hit her body.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” Linda continued.

Inga continued to gape. In a small voice, she said, “Remember you?”

“From Columbia. I knew your friend Peter.”

“Peter?” Inga said. “You knew Peter?”

“I was in journalism school. You were in philosophy.” She spat out the word. “We had coffee together three times with Peter. Three times. I might as well not have been there. You two were rattling on about Husserl. I said something about it and you laughed.” The woman’s eyes didn’t leave Inga.

“I’m sorry,” Inga said. She leaned forward. “I’m terribly sorry.”

“Mom doesn’t laugh at people,” Sonia said. “She laughs a lot, but not at people. She can’t remember everybody she meets. And I can say one thing for her, she doesn’t go through other people’s garbage.”

Inga could barely get the word out of her mouth. “Garbage?”