The reception area was light and bright and airy. Off to one side was a small waiting area with three seats for adults and an old rocking horse and a yellow plastic bucket overflowing with toys for younger visitors. Messy, splotchy paintings were scotch-taped to plain white walls. They were mostly tiny handprints in gooey primary paint colors or haphazard stick figures of families who were probably no longer together.

Jessica strode over to the reception counter, where a middle-aged woman was pouring coffee into a mug. She smiled sheepishly and set it down. “Sorry. You caught me on my coffee break. How can I help you?”

“I was hoping you might tell me how to get in touch with Miss Angeline?”

“I’m afraid you just missed her. She left about an hour ago.”

“Miss Angeline still works here?”

“Oh, yes. Twice a week.”

“I thought she’d be retired by now. She must be pretty old.”

The woman laughed. “She’s eighty-two and in better shape than the rest of us here at the children’s home.”

“Do you have an address or a number where I could contact her? I’m leaving town today.”

The woman shook her head. “We can’t give out information on our staff or residents. Is it something I could help with?”

“I have a package for Miss Angeline. Could I leave it here for her to pick up?”

“Of course.”

Jessica pulled the Thrifty’s bag from her purse and set it down on the counter.

The woman eyed it curiously. “Any message?”

Jessica thought for a moment. Then she said, “Tell her it’s a gift from Eleanor Lavelle’s daughter.”

Jessica was in the middle of the Mojave Desert, about halfway between Barstow and Baker, when she remembered Tony’s letter. Still stuffed in the glove compartment, still unread.

She pressed her foot harder on the gas and kept on going. Tried to focus on the breathtaking emptiness of the road stretching out in front of her, the vast expanse of arid brush on either side, the Joshua trees reaching up toward a cerulean sky. Tried not to think about what he might have written her. Thought about nothing else.

When Pryce had handed Jessica the envelope, she had thought the sight of Tony’s handwriting, his words, would have been too hard to take. Later, she’d feared she might be faced with a confession. Tony, unburdening himself from beyond the grave by burdening Jessica with the knowledge he had killed her mother.

Now? She had no idea what he’d felt compelled to commit to paper, what Jessica needed to know, that he couldn’t bring himself to tell her face to face when he was still alive.