Page 27 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

However, unlike Virginia, who had walked into the River Ouse, she was still alive. As long as there was life, there was hope, as somebody else had said. Probably not Leonard Cohen.

Be practical, her calmed mind offered. What could she do to address this problem? She could call her landlord, for one thing, and explain the problem. Her car was sitting in front of Mariah’s house, and maybe she could get Jenna to go down there and pick it up. It would be collateral for the rent.

Feeling freer, she wandered back to the hotel, and came into their suite just in time to greet Mariah pulling on a leather jacket.

Below, she wore a low-cut T-shirt and several necklaces falling in layers over her .

.. cleavage would be the wrong word ..

. chest. Her hair was shiny clean and loose over her shoulders and back, and she even had a little makeup on—some mascara, lip color, faintly rosy cheeks. “You look gorgeous,” Veronica said.

“Do I? Thanks.” She gestured to her body. “I haven’t been out at all, really. Since ... the”—she waved a hand—“thing. All of a sudden, I just want to be in the world. Does the cane make me look super weird?”

Veronica shook her head. “No way. You look like the eccentric daughter of a billionaire.”

“I was kind of going for Eurotrash.”

“Nope. You, my dear”—she pushed a lock of hair over her shoulder—“are an American even at a hundred paces.”

Mariah lifted both thumbs and pinkies in shaka signs, maybe ironically, and topped her look with a knitted cap that had the Olympic logo on the front.

“How many medals have you won?” Veronica asked.

“Two silver, one bronze. Never got the gold.”

“That must suck.”

Mariah raised her brows. “Thanks for that. People always tell me to be grateful, but I fucking wanted the gold. It sucks that I never got it.” She tucked her phone in her back pocket, then pulled it back out. “Let me drop a pin on this hotel.”

“That’s smart.” Veronica opened her phone to see a red 17 beside her messages. Ignoring them, she dropped a pin for “home” on her maps.

“This might be kind of stupid,” Mariah said, “and you can say no, but what if we have tracking on for each other? Then I can find you, and if I get lost, you can find me.”

Veronica asked, “Are you afraid you’ll get lost?”

She looked away. “You don’t have to. I just haven’t ever not had that on with my mom, and it feels kind of ... I don’t know ... dangerous or something?”

Veronica had to swallow the emotion that swelled in her throat. As casually as she could, she said, “Sure, of course. I get that.”

They found each other, and Mariah cloaked herself in swagger once more, saluting as she went out. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she said.

Veronica snorted. “That shouldn’t be too hard.”

It felt kind of lonely in the hotel room when Mariah left. She wished she had the guts to go out herself, to a restaurant or even one of the coffee shops she could see from the window. Across the street was an elegant hotel, with rows of windows on the lowest level showing a restaurant.

But she couldn’t seem to rouse herself to do it. Instead, she read her messages, almost all of them from Jenna and the boys. Nothing from Spence, which was new, but she was so angry with him, it was impossible to imagine what he’d say.

Jenna had solved part of her rent problem, but Veronica didn’t want to call her about the car yet. Instead, she sent an email to her landlord, explaining the situation and asking for a few days to work things out.

What else could she do from eight thousand miles away?

What she could do was some research.

The early dark was settling in. She turned on the gas fire and the lamps by the window and found a sweater, then looked through the things she’d bought at Taj, and what else she had to eat here.

She sampled the dates and molokia leaves, a bit of sweet tamarind and star fruit.

All intriguing, delicious. And it felt like a treat to enjoy whatever she wanted without checking in with someone else.

After she ate, she made a fresh cup of ginger tea, opened her Notes app on her phone, and sat down at the table where she began to see if she could track down anything at all about the bookstore. When she searched for it, it came right up—the South Asia Book Emporium, Brick Lane.

The photo had been taken on a darkish day, and lights glowed within, inviting the passerby to enter.

The website no longer existed, but many people had posted photos and written reviews, many in languages Veronica could not read—Hindi and Arabic and something she didn’t recognize.

She copied and pasted to find out what it was, and it came up as Farsi.

Parsi, Farsi, she thought with a smile, but it was true they were connected.

The Parsis had fled Persia for India, and Farsi was the language of Persia.

The reviews of the store (those she could read) praised the quality and breadth of books available, mostly history and social commentary.

Some reviews referred to the owner as helpful and interested, but none mentioned her by name.

She ran another search for the owner of the bookstore, and there it was, proprietor Zoish Irani.

The owner of the café was Hufriya Mistry, so not related that she could see. But both establishments had the symbol of the man atop wings. She copied it and searched images. It was a Zoroastrian symbol, and Zoroaster turned out to be the center of the Parsi culture, a monotheistic religion.

She frowned, wondering what else to search. If the book was going to be about cafés, then Parsi cafés were the centerpiece, but that didn’t explain the anger of the woman who ordered them out. And why did they have an address for the bookstore?

Not enough details, she thought, sketching out a simple outline. She could barely see a shape to the possible book, but she could see the ghostly outline. That was something.

An email alert popped up. Hoping for something from her landlord, Veronica opened it. Instead, it was from Jill. Letters #1 said the subject.

Hi, Veronica. Sorry to take so long. Not sure if Mariah told you, but my husband is recovering from a substantial heart attack (which is why you’re there and not me—ha!).

This is the first set of letters. I took photos with my phone, and there are only a few here, but I’ll get a better system, I promise. Jill

Her phone rang, startling her. No one ever called her. “Hello?”

A clipped British voice said, “Is this Veronica Barrington, please?”

“Yes?”

“I have your charge here, at the Chelsea A&E. She’s not injured, but she’s a bit of a mess. She’s asking for you. Can you come?”

Veronica was already on her feet. “Of course.”