Not true.
What about those sheets of paper scattered all over the kitchen? How in the fuck had that happened?
How did countless sheets get rolled into the typewriter? And how the hell did they get pulled out?
Paul began moving the cartons of books off the blanket box. Once he had it cleared off, he knelt down, slipped his hand into the groove under the lid to allow him to lift it up easily.
Just do it.
Lift it up and look inside.
Paul took a deep breath, and brought the lid up.
“Paul!”
“Jesus!” he shouted, dropping the lid and whirling around. His heart jackhammered in his chest.
The interior door to the garage was open about a foot, Charlotte’s head poking in.
“What are you doing?” she said. “I thought I heard you come in, but then you didn’t come upstairs.”
“You scared me half to death,” he said, still kneeling.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” he said. “I was . . . checking. That’s all.”
He turned back to the blanket box and lifted the lid, casting light down into it.
The typewriter was there. There was no paper rolled into it, no other paper to be found, not counting the stacks of old magazines.
Paul swallowed, lowered the lid, and stood.
“Well?” Charlotte asked.
“It’s here,” he said.
“Well, of course it is. For God’s sake, come to bed.”
He nodded sheepishly and walked across the garage, hit the light, and closed the door as he went back into the house.
Thirty-Seven
Paul was in front of his laptop when his cell phone rang shortly after noon the following day. It was Gabriella Hoffman.
“It’s set up for tomorrow,” she told him. “For both of you.”
“I can’t thank you enough,” he said. “He’s willing to see me?”
“He is.”
Then he called Anna White and told her they were set for a prison visit with Kenneth Hoffman, if she was still interested in coming.
“Yes,” she said without hesitation. She would have to clear her schedule for the day, and make sure that she could get Rosie, a retired nurse who lived next door who often checked in on her father whenever Anna had to be away for any length of time.
“Why don’t I drive,” she said.
Paul was going to ask why, then figured, if he were dealing with someone who’d suffered a head injury and from all indications was borderline delusional, he’d want to be the one behind the wheel, too.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll come to your place, then we’ll head up in your car.”
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“WAS THERE EVER ANY TALK OF CHARLOTTE COMING WITH US?” ANNA asked as they backed out of her driveway. The prison facility where Kenneth Hoffman was serving his time was near Waterbury. Anna figured it would take the better part of an hour to get there. She entered its address into the in-dash GPS system on her Lincoln SUV. They’d start out by taking Derby-Milford Road up to Highway 34, jogging west, then heading north on 8.
“She knew I was trying to arrange a visit with Kenneth, but when she knew you’d agreed to go with me, she thought that was best. She told me she came to see you.”
Anna glanced over. “I told her she should. There was no reason to keep it a secret. She’s worried about you.”
Paul nodded. “More now than ever.”
“Well, you are going through more now than you were before.”
“It’s not just that,” he said. “She just seems . . . more caring. In between moments where she thinks I’m totally nuts. Anyway, she decided to take a day herself and get out of town. Her mother’s in Tribeca, and she hasn’t been into the city to visit her in weeks. They’re not that close, actually, so I was a little surprised, but anyway, I dropped her off at the station this morning. Knowing Charlotte, she’ll also make time to hit Bloomingdale’s before catching the train home. I don’t know when we’ll be back so I told her to take a cab home from the station.”
Anna swerved too late to miss a pothole. A loud, metallic rattle came from the rear cargo area. It sounded like it was inside the vehicle. Before Paul could ask, Anna said, “Golf clubs.”
“Oh. You play?”
“Some. Every time I play there’s at least one club missing. My dad keeps taking them so he can hit some balls in the backyard and never puts them back.” She changed topics. “What are you really hoping to get out of this? Seeing Kenneth?”
“I’m not going in with any expectations. I guess I’ll see how it goes.”
She noticed a manila envelope on his lap. “What’s in there?”
“Something I want to show him, if they’ll let me.”
“You want to show me?”
He slid several pages out of the envelope. They were the messages he had found in the typewriter and scattered across the floor.
Anna glanced over several times as Paul leafed through them for her. “I simply don’t know what to make of them, Paul.”
“They’re proof,” he said.
“Of what, exactly?”
He glanced at her. “Maybe you think they’re proof that I’ve gone mad. I think they’re proof that Jill and Catherine Lamb are trying to reach me.”
Anna decided not to respond.
They drove a few more miles in silence until Paul said, “Tell me about Frank, about your father.”
“Well, he’s a wonderful man. A retired animator. Worked for Warner Bros., actually knew Walt Disney. Still watches cartoons every single day. He’s been living with me since my mother passed away. The last year or so, things have . . . started to happen. Confusion. Sometimes he thinks I’m my mom, his wife. Other times he wants me to take him to visit her. I fear we’re on a slippery slope.”
“It happens,” Paul said.
Her lips compressed before she spoke. “He’s been a great help to me for so long. He’s been telling me I need to find a place for him. Like he’s worried about being a burden to me.” The lips pressed tightly together again, as if somehow that would ward off tears. “Says there’s no reason for me to be keeping him around.”
“Is he laying a guilt trip on you?”
“It’s not like that at all. He’s genuinely worried about me.” She let out a short laugh. “Wants me to get out there. You know what he called this trip of ours, to a prison? A fun outing.”
Paul laughed.
Anna was silent for a moment. Then, “I don’t know what I’m going to do. I mean, eventually. We’re managing okay now, but in six months? Hard to say. That visit from the SWAT team shook him up badly.” She looked his way and smiled. “You would be amazed at how many therapists’ lives are a complete mess. We offer advice to others on how to get their shit together when our own is a total disaster.” She laughed self-deprecatingly. “We’re the evangelists who get caught with a prostitute while preaching morality to the masses.”
Paul smiled.
Anna continued, “We’re just people. We’re just people like anyone else, with a fancy piece of paper on the wall. At the end of the day, we have the same doubts as anyone else. Are we making any progress? Are we making a difference? Are we really any help to anyone at all?”
“You’ve helped me,” he said.
Her mouth formed a jagged smile. “I hope so. And yet here we are, driving off to meet with a murderer. For the life of me, I don’t know that this is going to do you an ounce of good.”
“It’s a journey into the unknown for us both.”
“Yeah, well, I wish this GPS could tell us if we’re doing the right thing.”
Paul looked at her hands gripping the steering wheel. He didn’t see any bandage.
“How’s the finger?” he asked.
She flashed him a smile. “It healed up nicely, thank you.”
A warm feeling washed over Paul. He wanted to touch Anna, rest his hand on her arm ever so slightly. Make a physical connection, no matter how small. He recalled holding her hand under the running water, their shoulders touching.
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