Needing to restore some sense of calm, I went back to the kitchen, where I filled the kettle and fetched a mug from the cupboard, into which I dropped a spoonful of instant coffee. My stomach let out a long, high-pitched wail, and I admitted defeat, deciding a piece of toast might keep it quiet for a while. When I opened the bread box, my eyes landed on the stack of mail on top of it, the one I’d teased Jack about a few weeks ago, as we were cooking pasta.

“You do know it’s the only thing in your entire apartment that’s untidy?” I’d said with a laugh. “I mean, everything’s pristine, your dishes are always done.”

“Why would you leave them lying around for the flies to get to?”

“Your bed’s always made.”

“The advantage of having a duvet, not sheets.”

“I like my sheets. Anyway, I thought you were trying to impress me at first, but I’ve never seen you leave as much as a dirty sock lying on the floor.”

Jack pulled me close, kissed my neck, murmuring, “I never knew dirty socks turned you on. I’ll leave a trail of them leading to the bed...” He pressed his lips to mine, making a delicious shiver of excitement, the one I always felt when he kissed me that way, travel to my belly where it set me on fire.

“I don’t need any help,” I whispered. “And I don’t need a bed.” He’d groaned as I’d unbuckled his belt, proving my point on the kitchen table, and we’d eaten overcooked pasta and burned Bolognese sauce for dinner.

Another surge of anger bubbled up inside me as I tried to cling to the memories of Jack, of his lips, his hands, his voice. I wanted to keep them vivid and alive—because he was alive—and I couldn’t let them ebb away, have them replaced by the agonizing uncertainty of what had happened to him, or of who he truly was. I grabbed the stack of papers and threw them into the recycling bin, before changing my mind and fishing them back out, spreading everything over the table. There was nothing of interest in the restaurant flyers and take-out menus, offers for better cable TV or pool supplies, but as I went through the mail again, what wasn’t there settled on my chest with the weight of the entire United States Postal Service.

None of the letters were personalized. Every single one, without exception, was addressed to Resident. Jack preferred to pay cash for everything, had said it kept him on budget, something I’d admired him for, but flicking through the mail, there wasn’t a single bill from an insurance company, or an official letter, and no bank or credit card statements, either. Not even a check or pay stub from his ex-boss.