Since she is coming to check on my progress this afternoon, I had better close this letter. She is coming to see how I much I have thrown away, mostly, my husband’s papers, and his tools, which I plan to give to the soup kitchen. Theresa tells me, so patiently, “Keep going!” and now I say the same to you, dear Laura, “Keep going!”

On the drive home, the church lady asked me if I would like a ride to church on Sunday. I told her no, that I was Catholic, and that I would wait for Win. She dropped me off at the end of the driveway.

I dug into Julien’s pockets, looking for anything of value. There was a key. Terrific, I thought, a secret key. Just what I needed, another secret to not tell.

“What are you talking about?” I asked, throwing wood. “What did you do wrong? Can we just get to the burning part?”

Was this even Julien’s money? What dice did he cast to hide this? What tyrant knows that it is here?

I gave the pastor all my money, promising to give more, if he could find medicine or a doctor, but I did not know where more money would come from. The little I gave him would leave me stranded, but I assumed Win would have some money or provide me with a way out of there in a few days.

We rushed by the living room. I was pushed into the basement by a strong hand. I plummeted. Had it not been for the railing on which my purse was caught, I would have dropped face down on cement. I backed up to release the strap. I held it close, that purse. The door behind us flew off.

After the announcement of our engagement, in 1904, Julien’ mother took to her bed, with her bell.

I never did witness nothing mortally sinful about him, though certainly for sure I know he was tempted to hate all those criminals he rubbed against and as he pushed and shoved them down and against the walls, tossing them in the transports, but I can only believe in my own fainting heart that he wanted to stay with the Lord and was I afraid when I came home to find him dead, and here you might tell me some made-up ugly truth tell gab that he died all alone, but now, we don’t believe in that.

But I would like to hear more about your work, Detective Quinn, and your other cold cases. Were there others who were like Julien? Who were his friends? Did he have any? Will your wife consider writing to me?

After a while, my mother decided that it was best that I not go along with her to sing before or after her speeches. It was just as well for that is when I was provided with a singing instructor, a repertoire, a pianist, and a travel and clothing allowance. This was initiated by my father.

But to share a meal with these simple folks, true Christians they were. I knew that the day before, these people were up and down their houses cleaning out the corner cobwebs and cooking and ironing the sheets and tablecloths for me, an empty vessel who wanted to refuse the food, but to reject their kindness was cruel, so I devoured it, all the varieties and heavy bacon and sausages and biscuits. Oh, to see their eyes light up!

He even declined the manly role to lead us in prayer. Sometimes, though, he yelled it out over his newspaper, including his folksy prayer that she would please stop holding her breath. Other times he could only nod to her or say that maybe he might do that sometime, when the hygiene of spirit moved him.

Your kindness and loyalty to your work gave me an interest climbing up the stairs, out of my basement apartment, so that I could mail this.

I tried to take your report, but we had two false starts. Your softness did not match your style. You were put together real nice, but I had to ask you twice to speak up. Asked you to help me help you. Told you a few lines I sometimes say to the women: I was on your side. A line was crossed. You had to turn on him. His shame belonged to him, not you. Don’t let your kids see you this way. Give it to me plain. Focus on details.

…James M. Parker, but we suspect he was using the same proper and surname but changing middle initial so that it would be in alphabetic order, the L-M-M-O-P, etc.