You Are Not Alone(63)

“Oh, I was supposed to meet a friend for a drink but he had to reschedule,” I say brightly.

Steve looks at me a little more closely and puts his hand with its slightly gnarled knuckles on my shoulder. “Save room for dessert. I’ve got some fresh baklava for you.”

I’m not that hungry when my food arrives, after all, but I force myself to eat a little more than half. I leave a big tip for my waitress—Steve’s granddaughter, who just started working here a few weeks ago—and ask her to pack up my leftovers.

I let myself into my apartment around nine, carrying a little white bag with not just the rest of my falafel, but a big square of baklava that Steve insisted on giving me.

A plain white envelope is on my floor, just inside the door, like someone slid it underneath.

It looks just like the envelope I gave to Detective Williams, the one containing the necklace.

My name is on the outside, written in such a messy scrawl I barely recognize the letters.

I pick it up. It’s light, but something small and hard is inside. It feels like metal.

I tear it open and see the mail key. I guess the landlord finally got around to dropping it off, after I left him another message yesterday to nudge him.

I reach for my key ring and attach it. I doubt anything important is waiting for me in the mailbox downstairs. Still, I should probably check.

But first I change, carefully hanging up my blue top. I pull on a hoodie and sweatpants and slip on flip-flops, since I’m only walking up and down the stairs.

The mailboxes are in double rows, one on top of the other, twenty in total. I find mine—3D—and slide in the key. I have to wiggle it a little to get it to turn. I pull the little bronze door open, and a few envelopes fall to the floor. It’s crammed full of mail.

I remove the catalog that’s on top and see it’s addressed to Amanda.

Her mail is still coming here. I should have expected that. How could companies and marketers know what happened to her?

I reach into the small rectangular space again and again, piling bills and letters and more catalogs into my arms. Wedged in the very back is a fat manila envelope that has been forced into a curve against the walls and floor of the mailbox. I use my fingernails to pry it free.

I take the stack of mail upstairs and lay it all out on my little wooden table. I start to sort it into two piles: Amanda’s and mine.

Almost all of it belongs to her. I could send it to her mother, since I have the address—although it might be jarring for her to open that package. I decide to ask Cassandra and Jane what they think I should do.

When I finish with the last piece, I don’t have two piles. I have three.

The fat manila envelope that was wedged in the very back of the box doesn’t have a name on it. There’s no address or stamp or postal mark. It’s completely blank.

It was so far back that it must have been in the box for a while, because when the mailman delivered the newer pieces, he would have pushed the envelope farther and farther away from the opening.

How could this unaddressed package end up in a mailbox, though? The only three keys to it, according to what the landlord said, were Amanda’s, the mailman’s, and the master key, which the landlord finally got copied for me.

So one of them must have put the package there. I can rule out the mailman, since there’s no postage or delivery information.

Possibly the landlord left it for me and didn’t put my name on it. He’s not the most responsible guy; it took him a week to get me a copy of the key.

But it seems more likely Amanda left it there.

Why would Amanda store something in her own mailbox?

I reach for the envelope and turn it over in my hands. It feels soft and bulky. It isn’t sealed. Just the little metal butterfly clip is engaged through the hole in the flap.

It would be easy to quickly check and close it right back up. Maybe one of the other neighbors, like Mary from across the hall, gave it to the postman while he was filling up my box. Maybe it is for me.

There’s only one way to find out. I pinch together the ends of the metal clip and open the flap.

Inside is a big Ziploc bag, with something else sealed within. It looks like a plain blue towel, folded up into a messy square.

Nothing about this makes sense. Maybe something is wrapped inside the towel.

I pull apart the seal on the Ziploc and use my fingertips to slide out the towel. As I take an edge to pull it open, a shot explodes outside my window.

I recoil, cringing.

I listen for another sound—a yell or another shot. Then I hear a motor revving and realize it was only a car backfiring.

I take a deep breath and straighten up. I should be used to the city’s noises by now, I chide myself.

I pull open an edge, but the towel is still folded in half. Now it’s a rectangle instead of a square. A tiny drop, what looks like a rust-colored stain, is by the bottom edge.

The hairs on my arms are standing up. Some instinct is telling me to shove the towel back in the Ziploc and throw it away. I don’t want to see what’s inside.

But I can’t stop my fingers from reaching out again, grasping the very tip of the towel.

I pull it open and flinch.

I can’t stop staring at the rust-colored stain in the middle of the towel, and the small scalpel—the kind doctors use during surgeries—lying in its center. The scalpel also has brick-color stains on it.