When I told Michael what Sandy had said about the previous owner, it hadn’t bothered him at all. “First, it’s just gossip,” he’d pointed out. “And besides, what matters more? That he lived a happy life here, or that he died here? It’s only because these houses are so new that people are freaked out about living in a place where someone died. In New England, you couldn’t find a place where someone hadn’t.”

Lying next to him in our bed, it had seemed like he was right. The hardwood floors in our bedroom gleamed innocently in the moonlight. I wasn’t squeamish, and there was nothing creepy about our house.

But now as I drove into our neighborhood, I wondered if those gorgeous hardwood floors were exposed only because the carpet had been so soaked with blood. I didn’t want to go home, but I’d run out of errands. Turning onto my street, I was blinded for a minute by the glare of sunlight off Rahmia’s windows. I pulled into my driveway, turned off the engine, and hesitated. The temperature rose so quickly in the car that I got out, leaving my bags in the trunk. Nothing I’d bought was perishable.

I’d walk to the mailbox, or maybe farther. Maybe I’d just keep walking until Michael came home. Or longer. How long could I go before I outwalked my own thoughts? Telling my story hadn’t erased the memory of Aimee, but it had given me a glimpse of life without that emotional burden.

And it would still be empty.

Once at the block of mailboxes, I opened the little door to ours and pulled out the mass of paper jammed inside—a rolled-up glossy magazine, a few advertising fliers and a postcard, and an envelope addressed to “current resident.”

As I shoved everything back into the box so I wouldn’t have to hold it while I walked, I got a better look at the postcard. I yanked it back out and held it in both hands. Not a coupon for pizza or the promise of a free car wash. The front of the postcard displayed the Martina V. Umana Museum, the place where I’d spent so many hours curating, encouraging, and creating art. Longing and grief flooded me. They thought I was a thief, a liar, and they’d still kept me on some kind of mailing list? You’re fired, but don’t forget to attend our next exhibition.

But how had they gotten my new address?

I flipped the postcard over.

In Aimee’s spiky handwriting, I read, “Don’t you wish you were here?”

Hands shaking, I tore the card, over and over again, as if I could destroy Aimee and the museum and the entire past year. Tearing it wasn’t enough. I wanted to burn it and then bury the ashes.