Most people distrust answers that sound too polished. The truth, even an incomplete truth, is often easier to believe.
Laurel unfolded her arms.
“Third floor,” she said. “Apartment 3C. The building faces the fountain.”
I wrote the address on the back of a business card.
As I stood, Laurel said, “Michael.”
It was the first time she had used my name.
I turned.
“If she’s hurt…”
“I’ll find her.”
Mrs. Alvarez lived in a narrow apartment building with a broken outer lock and a hallway that smelled of boiled rice and furniture polish.
No one answered at 3C.
I knocked twice more before a door across the hall opened.
A teenage girl looked out, her hair wrapped in a blue scarf.
“Mrs. Alvarez isn’t home,” she said.
“Do you know where she is?”
“Hospital.”
My stomach tightened.
“What happened?”
“She got dizzy at the park yesterday. An ambulance came.”
“Which hospital?”
The girl told me.
“Are you family?” she asked.
“No. I’m helping someone she knows.”
“Laurel?”
The name came too quickly.
“You know her?”
The girl opened the door a little wider.
“Mrs. Alvarez talks about her. Says she works harder than three people and worries like six.”
“Did she mention Dash?”
“All the time.”
“Did she say why she didn’t contact Laurel?”
The girl frowned.
“She tried. She asked the paramedic to call somebody, but she couldn’t remember the hotel name.”
“Did she leave anything?”
“For Laurel?”
“Yes.”
The girl hesitated before looking down the hall.
“Wait.”
She disappeared and returned carrying a small paper bag folded at the top.
“Mrs. Alvarez gave this to my grandmother last week,” she said. “She said it belonged to the little boy.”
I took the bag.
Something light shifted inside.
“Why didn’t your grandmother deliver it?”
“She works nights. And she thought Mrs. Alvarez already had.”
I thanked her and left.
In the car, I opened the bag.
Inside was a child’s red mitten, two plastic dinosaur figures, and a sealed white envelope.
On the front, written in unsteady blue ink, were the words:
