“But your message—”
“Was either not passed on or not believed.”
He opened his hand on the desk.
“I went to Pennock Street myself,” he said. “Eight days after the crash. I knocked at number fourteen for most of an hour. It was dark. There was a pile of mail on the mat. I left a letter, handwritten, and put it through the slot.” His mouth tightened. “I know now that the house stood empty for five months that winter, because Mrs. Linwood fell on the ice the week before, and was in a rehabilitation facility in the next county until April.”
“She never got it.”
“She got it in April. Along with ninety other pieces of mail. I imagine she read the electric bills and the doctor’s letters. I imagine it didn’t look like anything.” He closed his eyes. “She’d have had no reason to open a handwritten letter from a stranger. Not after her son had been de*d for five months.”
I sat there with that for a long time.
“Mrs. Eastwood,” said Mr. Amory. “I’ve been looking for her ever since. Not the way you’d think. I couldn’t find her records. I wasn’t allowed to. I called the county every November on the anniversary and asked whether the child was safe, and they told me, in a certain tone of voice, that she was in a stable placement.” He opened his eyes. “That was all I was allowed. A stable placement. For seven years, I told myself I would take that and be grateful.”
