You can begin manufacturing pictures simply because you’ve been told they ought to exist.
“I don’t remember.”
“She didn’t look very sick then.”
Daniel picked up the blue sweater.
“This was hers.”
I stared at it.
And suddenly something surfaced.
A rainy afternoon.
A girl at the register.
A blue sweater.
She had bought two mystery novels and complained cheerfully that every detective in fiction needed to stop investigating murders alone at midnight.
“You recommended a book to her,” Daniel said.
My throat tightened.
“A Dorothy Sayers novel.”
The garage disappeared for a second.
I could see the bookstore.
The wooden counter.
Rain streaking the front windows.
The young woman laughing.
Behind her stood a serious-looking man holding an umbrella.
Daniel.
“I remember the sweater.”
He nodded.
“Rebecca liked you.”
I looked down at the envelope.
“She wrote to me?”
“Apparently.”
“Why didn’t you give me this?”
“I told you. I’ve never seen it.”
