I told her the address was not responsible for what previous residents had suffered.
“Then why does Mrs. Kessler act like we owe her something?”
I looked out at the row of porch lights across the street.
Marjorie’s curtains were open, and I could see her pacing behind the glass.
“Some people mistake knowing a secret for owning everyone who might learn it,” I said.
Sophie considered that answer.
“That sounds exhausting.”
I laughed despite myself.
Later that night, a hard object struck our front door.
I ran downstairs and found a small stone on the welcome mat.
A note had been wrapped around it with red thread.
The message contained six words.
“Give me the letter by Friday.”
Chapter 6: The Woman in Maine
I called the police from the hallway and did not touch the stone.
Officer Lena Ortiz arrived twenty minutes later, photographed the note, and reviewed my doorbell video.
The camera showed a figure in a hooded raincoat approaching the porch, but the person’s face remained hidden.
Lena took my statement and warned me not to assume Marjorie had thrown the stone unless we could establish it.
I appreciated the caution, although the threat sounded exactly like the demand Marjorie had made.
Lena also explained that threatening notes and suspected mail theft needed separate documentation.
She gave me a case number and promised to pass the details to the department’s investigations unit.
The next morning, the post office contacted me about the cream envelope.
The sender had confirmed that she wanted the letter forwarded to Daniel Mercer, Evelyn’s son, because Evelyn had died the previous spring.
The post office would handle the redirection.
I felt an unexpected sadness for the woman whose name had been shouted across my porch.
I would never meet Evelyn, and she would never learn that a stranger had stood up to Marjorie over one last letter.
The postal employee explained that the sender was willing to speak with me if I wanted to give permission for my telephone number to be shared.
I agreed.
That afternoon, a woman named Miriam Fiske called from Maine.
Her voice was clear and brisk, with the careful cadence of someone accustomed to explaining difficult things.
She said she had volunteered at the maritime museum for twenty-five years.
Evelyn had written to her in 2006 about a box of historical photographs and administrative papers donated by an unidentified former resident of Briar Glen.
The museum had accepted the photographs because several depicted harbor workers who later settled in Pennsylvania.
