On Saturday morning Laurel’s garage looked like every generous thing she’d ever done had been tipped out onto the driveway. There were bags of coats against one wall, crates of toys against another, two folding rails of shirts and a stack of flattened boxes held down by a stone. A man in a red fleece …
The Last Person to See Her
By eleven on Friday the soup had sold out, and the first person to ask for a refund was a man who hadn’t ordered any. “I’ve been waiting seventeen minutes,” he said. “For soup?” Charlie asked. “For somebody to serve me.” He had sat at a table under a sign saying PLEASE ORDER AT THE …
There were two ways to get out of the hall with my carriers. One took me past the kitchen. The other took me through the fire exit by the stage. I chose the kitchen. Laurel was standing at the sink with her back to me, washing a mug. I could have said Sylvia’s name. I …
The first message from Laurel said, Please ring me. The second said, I assume someone has been talking to you. I sat outside Tessa’s house with the engine off and read them until the phone dimmed. Then I called Reed. He listened while I told him about the photograph and the canceled visit. He said …
Tessa Ward called at seven the following morning, when I was standing in the kitchen wondering whether to phone Jess. I had opened our conversation three times. Each time I read the message about the vacuum cleaner and shut it again. It was possible to need your daughter and know you had no right to …
I changed my blouse before I went to the police station. There was nothing wrong with the one I was wearing. It was clean. It had all its buttons. But it was the blouse I’d worn to take Martin’s death certificate to the bank, and I couldn’t face sitting under another strip light in it …
The thank-you note was for a meal I hadn’t delivered to a woman who was already dead. Laurel had tucked it inside my yellow casserole dish, between two sheets of kitchen paper. She stood on my porch holding the lid against her chest while I read the card. Thank you, Diane. Sunday, 8:15. Your kindness …

