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“Oh, of course,” Hallie says. “I’ll leave you to it. You’ll let me know when you get the details of the ball?”
I nod curtly. “Thanks for coming in.”
“I’m just going to check on the artifacts that came in from the Nelson dig before I go home,” Hallie says. “Don’t work too hard.” She and Louise go out together, and I hear them talking as they head for the staircase.
I sink back into my chair and put my head in my hands with a groan. I can’t possibly go to Bethlehem with Hallie. I’ll have to come up with a reason to turn her down. I’ll say that the Williams family will only let us have one ticket, and so I needto go alone. Yes, that’ll do. What’s the point in putting myself in that position?
In fact, I’m going to tell her now. I’ll say Whina rang as soon as Hallie left. No point in hanging on.
I get up and stride out of my office.
The museum is open from nine a.m. until four p.m. on Sundays. It has a skeleton staff: reception, security, guides, cleaners, but the offices are empty, so even though there’s a steady stream of visitors, it tends to feel quieter than on Saturdays.
I run down the central staircase and cross the large foyer, heading for the conservation room. As I pass the reception desk, though, Cait, the receptionist, who’s in the middle of accepting payment from two backpackers, waves to me, so I cross over to her.
“Are you going to see Hallie?” she asks. When I nod, she says, “I forgot to tell her she had a letter arrive for her on Friday. Would you mind giving it to her, please?”
“Yes, of course.” I take it from her, leave her to the backpackers, and cross to the conservation room.
I glance at the letter in my hand and stop walking. The envelope is plain white. The corner bears an official, printed logo of a shield and crown flanked by two figures, one Maori, one Pakeha. The Maori text next to it reads ‘Ara Poutama Aotearoa’. Beneath that is the English translation: Department of Corrections. It also states: ‘Mail sent from a prison’.
I turn the letter over. There is a sentence on the back: ‘This mail is from a person in prison.’ It explains that if the recipient doesn’t want to receive mail from the sender, they can call or email, and it gives a website for further information.
I turn it back over. The address is handwritten. The writing is quite beautiful, almost as if it’s calligraphy. It’s addressed to Miss Hallie Woodford, but what’s odd is that the writer began tospell out Hallie’s name, then crossed it out, then wrote it again before going on to her surname. People do make mistakes, of course, but it’s just odd considering the writer obviously took care over the rest of the words.
I open the door to the conservation room and go inside.
Zoe and Elora are both away, so it’s just Hallie in the room. All of them enjoy working here, and I can understand why. It’s an archaeologist’s dream, with several long white tables, specialized equipment for cleaning, drying, and preserving, microscopes and computers, and a rack filled with boxes of all kinds of artifacts that are awaiting examination.
Hallie is standing at the central table, rummaging through a tub of animal bones that she and Elora have been working on.
“Hello,” she says, surprised, as I walk in. “I thought you were making phone calls. That was quick.”
“I heard from Whina again,” I say, walking over to her. “Oh, by the way, Cait said this came for you on Friday.” I hand her the letter before I forget.
She takes it, glances at it, looks away, then does a cartoon-like double take. It would have been comical except for the fact that all the color drains from her face, and she goes completely white.
“Hallie? Hey, what’s the matter?”
She stares at the letter as if she can’t tear her gaze from it. “It’s nothing… I… oh…” She sways. Just before her knees buckle and she collapses, I slide an arm around her waist, pulling her tightly to me.
She clutches hold of my top and rests her forehead on my shoulder, and I wrap my other arm around her. “It’s okay.” I rub her back. “Breathe,” I remind her, and she takes a deep, shuddering breath.
Mmm… despite my concern, I wouldn’t be human if I wasn’t aware how soft she is in my arms, or the fresh smell of herhair as I inhale it discreetly. This isn’t good… Physical contact is the last thing that Hallie and I should be having. Even so, I’m reluctant to let her go, but I force myself to steer her to a stool and make sure she’s sitting before I release her. She presses her fingers to her lips, and her hand where she’s holding the letter is shaking.
“Hallie,” I say firmly, “what is it?”
She looks up at me then. Her eyes are shiny with tears, but as she focuses on me, she blinks them away, and her spine stiffens. “It’s nothing,” she says.
“It doesn’t look like nothing.”
“It’s from… an old friend.” She leans over and stuffs it in her purse, then does up the zip as if she’s trying to put it out of her mind.
An old friend? I presume she means an ex. “From Ian?” I ask, naming the guy she’s just broken up with. He didn’t work in a prison, and as far as I know he’s not incarcerated.
But she shakes her head. “No. I’d rather not talk about it.”
I’m disappointed, but I can’t force her to discuss it.