“Uh, I don’t know,” I say. “Why? What did you find?”

“Okay, so, first of all,” Matilda says, “I had to pull several strings to find this information, so I hope you’re grateful.”

“Very,” I say. “What did you find?”

There’s a pause, and then she says, “It’s just weird, Juniper.”

I wait for her to elaborate, but she doesn’t.

Good grief. I’m going to have to pry every detail from her at this rate. Matilda likes the drama of a good reveal, but I wish she’d save it for a less-important conversation.

I rub my temples, taking a deep breath.Patience, patience, patience.

“Weird how?” I say—patiently.

“Well, so, okay. Didn’t your mom die six years ago?”

“Six and a half, yeah.”

“In May, right?”

Rarely does Matilda surprise me, but every so often, it happens. “How did you remember that?” I say.

“Because you texted me to tell me when I was online bidding for that vintage Givenchy bag—the black one, remember? And I got the notification that I won, like, literally three seconds after your text. That was in May.”

Ah. That makes far more sense. “Yes, okay. What about it?”

“This guy died like aweeklater. Suicide.”

I shiver at her words, rubbing my arms for warmth. Did Aiden turn on the AC or something?

“I read a bit about that. Tell me more.”

“Well, he was fine, for one. His wife and his coworkers said he didn’t show any signs of depression or suicidal ideation. It sounds like he was pretty stressed at work, there were going to be layoffs and he was trying to be extra productive to make sure his position stayed safe, but other than that—”

“Why did they call it a suicide, then?” I say, looking around the room and trying to decide where to sit. My eyes catch on Aiden’s reading chair in the corner, empty and inviting, and I hurry over. I want a turn sitting next to the bust of Shakespeare and feeling generally superior to everyone in the vicinity. That might help ease some of the turmoil I’m experiencing.

“Because he left a note.”

She drops this piece of information right as I’m trying to seat myself elegantly—a must when wearing a shorter skirt—but when her words register, I abandon that desire and let myself free-fall into the chair, squirming around to get comfortable. I end up with my legs crossed criss-cross-applesauce, and anyone standing in front of me would definitely see things they did not have permission to see.

But Aiden’s not here anyway. It’s fine. I need to settle in for this conversation.

“He left a note?” I say, just to make sure I heard her correctly. “The reports I saw never mentioned that.”

“Mm-hmm,” Matilda says, and I can hear in her voice how much she’s enjoying this. She’s not a bad person, but she does love being the one to pass along anything juicy—frequently without considering how her news might be received. She’s not mean, she’s just careless and self-centered. “There was a note.”

If it were anyone else telling me this, I might stay quiet, assuming they were naturally going to tell me what the note said. But I know Matilda; she’s going to wait for me to ask. And I want to know badly enough that I’ll humor her.

“What did it say?” I drape my legs over the arm of the chair, still trying to find a position that’s comfortable. How does Aiden sit in this thing all the time? It has no lounging capabilities at all.

“Among other things, he said he was distraught over the death of hislifelong love.”

“His lifelong…?”

“Yes!” she squeals, so loudly that I yank the phone away from my ear. “That has to mean your mom, right?”

“What?” I say as my thoughts spin. “No. That doesn’t make sense. He was married to someone else. He hadn’t seen my mom in—”