By the time Georgia left Mickey’s, the wind had kicked up, spitting pinpricks of sleet that stung her face. When she got to the car she turned the heat and defroster on high.
Sam jettisoned her guy soon after Georgia. After what happened to Jay, Noel claimed to be “separated.” Not good enough, said Sam, who, after the men made a hasty exit, ranted about the nerve of some men who thought—no—expected women to gratefully drop their panties after one drink.
Like Sam, Georgia was irritated too. Not that Jay was dangerous. Deceptive, but probably innocuous. No. Her disappointment was more subtle: she had allowed herself to hope. To expect something good would happen just because she was ready for it. She should have known that anytime she pretended to be a normal person, someone for whom good things happened as a matter of course, God reminded her that wasn’t his plan.
She parked around the corner and trudged to her door, trying to shield herself from the sleet. She had more SUVs to check out, but she wasn’t optimistic. The odds of finding out why the guy had been tailing her were growing slimmer. This was one of the times she missed being a cop.
She’d call Gutierrez tomorrow. They would have done the autopsy—maybe she’d learn something. Maybe he’d let her read the GPRs. Aside from that, though, there wasn’t a lot more she could do. She wasn’t hurt, and no one was threatening her. It might be time to let it go.
She entered the vestibule. On the left wall were six mailboxes. Below them was a small table covered with junk mail. One was for a new pizza delivery place. Someone else wanted to clean her carpets. Nothing interesting or even important, except bills. That’s why she only checked her mail every few days. She slid in a key and pulled out her mail: ComEd, phone, and cable bills, and a long white envelope with a blue Post-it attached. She read the Post-it:
Found this wedged between the wall and the table. Don’t know how long.
It was signed by one of her upstairs neighbors. She turned it over. Stamped, addressed to her in black ink, but scratchy penmanship. No return address. The envelope was so light she wasn’t sure anything was inside. She held it up. Maybe a sheet of paper.
She climbed up to her apartment. Inside she peeled off her coat, gloves, and hat and took the mail into the kitchen. She didn’t like unidentified mail. She considered not opening it. She considered putting on gloves in case it contained a toxic substance. No. She was being paranoid. She shook it lightly. The contents didn’t move. If it was powder, there was only a trace amount. She was reasonably confident whatever was inside wouldn’t explode. She considered asking her neighbor upstairs what he knew about it, but it was already after ten. Too late.
She took a breath and opened it. A small scrap of paper drifted to the floor. She picked it up. Thin, opaque, as scratchy as tissue paper, it had skinny red and yellow stripes on one side. It looked like a fast-food wrapper. She smelled it. A faint odor of grease. She noticed a brown smudge in one corner. Ketchup? There was also the black bleed-through of writing from the other side. She turned it over. Written in the same jagged penmanship as the envelope was a note.
Georgia, I am your half sister, Savannah. I’m in Chicago and I’m pregnant.
I need your help. Please find me.