Mulberry Park. Judy Duarte

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      It wasn’t a conscious decision. Not really. But she found herself reaching into the envelope, pulling out the folded letter and a blue marker. Reading the words.

      Dear God.

      Tell Mommy and Daddy I am being good. And that I love them. And you. Will you rite back and tell me what Mommy and Daddy are doing in hevin? I asked Unkel Sam and he doznt no. I will put a marker in the invalop for you in case they dont have pens in hevin.

      Love Analisa

      Tears blurred Claire’s eyes, and a knot tightened in her chest. Her heart, which she thought had become permanently numb and lifeless, quivered.

      She scanned the park, her gaze settling on the swing set in the playground, where a dark-haired boy sat alone, his hands on the chains, his toes dragging in the sand. If there’d been a little girl in the area, Claire might have reached out, might have considered embracing her. Might have succumbed to the compulsion to offer sympathy.

      But Analisa, whoever she was, had left her letter and gone.

      Claire tried to imagine what it would have been like for Erik had Claire been the one to die in the accident, leaving her son to grieve for her.

      She would have hoped that someone would have reached out to him, told him that she hadn’t wanted to die, hadn’t wanted to leave him. Insisted that she would love him forever and do her best to look out for him always, to be his guardian angel—if there were such things.

      Her own faith had been shattered by his death and her unanswered prayers, so she’d never been able to envision a smiling Erik with wings and a halo. Yet for some reason she wanted little Analisa to have some peace, to embrace her hopes and dreams—at least until adulthood brought along an inevitable wallop of faith-busting reality.

      It’s what Claire would have wanted for Erik, even if she couldn’t have it for herself. So she uncapped the blue marker as if someone else had stepped in to guide her hand and respond to a child’s plea for answers when there weren’t any to be had.

      Someone else who, for the next couple of minutes, scratched out a note on the back of the child’s letter and pretended to be God.

      The next day, Claire sat at her desk at Fairbrook Savings and Loan, wishing the clock would kick it up a notch.

      She hated her job, hated getting up each day and going to work.

      But she hated weekends, too. Days when she didn’t have to punch a time clock.

      Her stomach growled, reminding her that she should have had more than coffee for breakfast.

      She glanced at the clock on the wall. It was nearly noon and she was ready to head to the café down the street and pick up a salad, but there was still a call she needed to make and one more customer to see. So she closed the file she’d been working on, put it in the wire basket that held the other loan applications she’d been processing, and picked up the phone. She dialed her supervisor’s extension.

      He picked up on the first ring. “Joe Montgomery.”

      “It’s Claire. Have you got a minute?”

      “Sure.” His voice softened immediately, although she wished it hadn’t. He’d always been a bit more sympathetic than she was comfortable with. “What’s up?”

      “I’d like to take an early lunch on Thursday. I need to see an attorney, and eleven-thirty is his only time slot available.”

      “Is everything okay?” he asked.

      “Yes and no. I received a letter from the parole board, and Russell Meredith’s hearing is on July twenty-fourth.”

      “Do you have any say about him being released early or not?”

      “According to the notice, I do. And I want him to stay behind bars as long as possible.”

      “I can understand that.”

      Could he? Claire wasn’t sure anyone who hadn’t lost a child could.

      Russell Meredith had been responsible for Erik’s death. He’d run him down on the side of the street, then kept driving, callously leaving the scene.

      A jury had convicted him of vehicular manslaughter, which, as far as Claire was concerned, was just another word for murder.

      “Who are you going to see?” Joe asked.

      “Samuel Dawson. He represented Ron and me in the civil suit against Meredith.”

      At first Claire had felt funny going to the attorney who’d worked more closely with her ex-husband than he had with her, but Sam was already familiar with the case.

      “Do you need to take a longer lunch?” Joe asked.

      “No. His office is in that new six-story brick building next to Mulberry Park, so it’s nearby. I shouldn’t be long.”

      “Take all the time you need.”

      “Thanks.”

      After hanging up the receiver and disconnecting the line, she glanced at her appointment list, rolled back her chair, then stood and walked to the waiting area, where a petite Latina woman with a toddler on her lap sat next to a small, school-age boy.

      “Maria Rodriguez?” Claire asked.

      “Yes, that’s me.” The woman stood and shifted the little girl in her arms, revealing a distended womb.

      “This way.” Claire escorted her back to the office, but couldn’t help glancing over her shoulder.

      Maria, her big brown eyes luminous, carried her paperwork in one arm and the toddler in the other, while the boy—about seven or eight—followed along. “I’m sorry, but I had to bring the children with me. There wasn’t anyone who could watch them for me this morning.”

      “That’s all right.” Claire pointed to the chairs that sat before her desk, watching as Maria told her son to take one and chose the other for herself. “What can I help you with?”

      “I recently inherited a house on Sugar Plum Lane,” Maria said. “It belonged to my tía—my aunt—but several months before she passed away, she quitclaimed it to me. It’s an old home, but very clean and comfortable.”

      Claire nodded, assuming the woman meant to use the house as collateral. It was a simple enough procedure, especially if there wasn’t a huge mortgage or if there weren’t any liens against it.

      This appointment was just the first in a prescreening process the bank had recently instituted, and if the initial paperwork was in order, Ms. Rodriguez would be given a full application packet.

      “Did you fill out the form you were given at the front desk?” Claire asked.

      “Yes.” Maria handed over the paperwork.

      Claire looked at the neat, legible writing; it appeared to be complete. “Where do you work, Ms. Rodriguez?”

      “I’ve СКАЧАТЬ