Page 95 of Whistle

“I’m betting there was more to it than that.”

“It doesn’t matter, anyway. You’ve decided to leave, so leave.”

“What were their names?”

“I really don’t—”

“Names. If you don’t tell me, I’m betting Daniel will know. But I’d really rather not bother him right now. His wife’s not well. Is it Smitherton? That’s the name still on the mailbox.”

Candace sighed, as though admitting defeat. “Yes. Graham and Steph. Short for Stephanie.”

“Where’d they move to?”

“New Haven, I think. They were from there originally. Look, I’m really sorry how things turned out, but if you ever—”

“Good night,” Annie said, turned and went back into the house.

It didn’t take her five minutes of Google-searching on the laptop in her bedroom to find a Graham and Stephanie Smitherton in New Haven who ran a photo studio. Their website offered a variety of services, from simple things like passports to more ambitious projects like weddings. There was a phone number, but when Annie called it went straight to voicemail. It was late in the day, and their business hours were nine to five.

There was an email address. Annie dashed off a quick message, identifying herself not as someone who lived in their former residence, but as the children’s book author and illustrator. (She hoped they might recognize her name.) She said she had an urgent request, and would they be good enough to call her when they received this email?

She hitsend.

While she awaited a reply, she set about getting Charlie and herself ready to leave. She went downstairs, eyed the unfinished jigsaw puzzle. Only the border and most ofTheNew Yorkermasthead were finished. She took the open box, held it under the edge of the table, and swept all the pieces—those that had not yet been placed and those that had—into it, slid the lid back on top of it, and gave it a shake. She held the box a moment, as though wondering in what bag she’d place it for the trip home, then opened the door to the cupboard below the sink and shoved it into the garbage bin.

Annie took a look in the fridge and the pantry, assessing what, if anything, she might take home with her. She would need to makea lunch for the trip, something they could eat in the car. She didn’t want to stop on the way for anything but gas and bathroom breaks. She wanted to put this place as far behind her as quickly as she could.

Her eyes went to the bag of bagels Finnegan had brought, and teared up.

Problem solved.

Her cell phone, which she had left by the kitchen sink, rang.

“Hello?” she said.

“Ms. Blunt?” a woman asked.

“Yes. Is this Stephanie Smitherton?”

“Call me Steph.”

“And please, call me Annie.”

“I can’t tell you how excited I was to hear from you. I’m a real fan, and we don’t even have kids. I love your work, and I can’t even imagine why you’re calling me. What can I do for you?”

Annie hated to burst the woman’s bubble. “I’m afraid I wasn’t entirely up-front in my email. I have something unrelated to my work to ask you about.”

Steph said, “Oh?”

“My son and I have been staying in the house you used to live in. The place near Fenelon.”

Silence on the other end of the line.

“Steph?”

“I’m here.” Her voice, friendly a moment earlier, was now cold. “What is it you want?”

“I wanted to know why you left this place.”

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