Ethan Dart, who’d emailed her out of the blue because of that strange letter, had just given her his list of favorite poets, and she was googling Weldon Kees, looking for a poem of his that she remembered liking. After a few minutes she found it and reread it to herself. An odd poem called “For My Daughter.” It was the last line that had stuck with her: “I have no daughter. I desire none.”
She was about to write back to Ethan when she got a second email from him.
I lost you when I called Dylan a poet, didn’t I?
She smiled, and wrote:
No. You didn’t lose me, but he’s not a poet. He’s a songwriter. No, I was looking up a poem by Weldon Kees I like called “For My Daughter.” You don’t hear very much about him these days.
Ethan wrote:
Phew, you’re still there. I was missing you already. I love Kees, and sometimes I think I’m just romanticizing him because he went missing and no one ever saw him again. Do you know his poem “Crime Club”？
Caroline:
I don’t, but I’ll look it up.
Ethan:
Okay. I’ll wait patiently while you read it. I’ll try not to panic that you’re leaving me.
Caroline and Ethan Dart emailed until just before dawn. She knew that it was that late not because of the soft gray glow that was filling her curtains but because Fable had come to wake her up, asking to be let out for his predawn reconnaissance.
It’s nearly morning, she wrote and he wrote immediately back:
My least favorite time of day. Can we continue this conversation tomorrow night? Or maybe we shouldn’t push our luck.
She wrote:
Sure, I could continue, but not until I get at least a little sleep.
She folded up her laptop, then brought it to her office to charge. The window curtains were now almost ablaze with morning light. Still, she crawled back under her covers, and thought about the very strange events of the last two days. First, the letter, and then the phone call from the FBI wanting to take possession of it, and now this long email exchange with a country singer from Austin, Texas, who loved Weldon Kees. She’d looked at the picture he had up on his website, and thought he looked a little like paintings she’d seen of Edmund Spenser. Same narrow, pointed nose, same dark brown eyes.
She pulled the covers over her head, creating a pocket of darkness, and lay for a time with her eyes still open.
9
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 7:16 A.M.
Jessica Winslow lay awake in her bed, wondering if she’d even managed three solid hours of sleep. Aaron had escorted her home the night before, and she’d let him walk her into her house, even let him poke around for a while. She didn’t offer him a drink, however, and he let her lead him to her front door.
“Come straight to work in the morning,” he said. “Don’t stop off anywhere public.”
“Sure,” she’d said, as she was bending down to pick up the single catalogue that had come through her mail slot.
“You taking this seriously?”
She looked up. Aaron seemed genuinely concerned, but she could also smell toothpaste on his breath, which meant that he’d brushed before leaving the office to escort her home. Which meant he was hoping to be asked to stay.
“I am,” she said. “And I’ll come straight to work in the morning if you promise to have a coffee and an elephant ear from Mia’s waiting for me.”
“That’s the one on Clinton Ave?”
“That’s the one.”
“Okay. I’ll see you then.”
She’d spent the night compiling facts on the remaining names they had yet to identify, but didn’t send any more emails, or make any more calls. Then she’d gotten into bed with the newest Lisa Gardner book, and read until she thought she might be able to fall asleep. She hadn’t, not right away, her mind trying to connect the names on the list, trying to figure out what they might have in common. When she finally slept, she must have dreamed, because she remembered waking up at some point convinced that the dream she’d just had explained everything. She’d reached for the notebook she kept on her bedside table, but as soon as she’d opened it up to a blank sheet, her mind went blank as well. No vestige of the dream remained.
Even though Aaron was going to bring her coffee to the office, she made herself a cup at home. It was going to be one of those mornings. Dressed in her most comfortable suit, she stepped out into the misty day, scanning the blank windows of the surrounding townhouses. Like most residents of her development, she parked out front unless there was going to be a snowstorm and they’d need to plow. There was a parking lot available to all residents, but it was located on the far side of the swimming pool.