Chapter 39 – December 14, 1988: Part I
Colin awoke intermittently throughout the night, but when he opens his eyes this time, he sees the sun spreading golden light across his grandmother’s handmade quilt and me staring at the ceiling, my hands behind my head.
“Why are you awake?” he asks hoarsely.
I lean over and kiss his forehead. “Why are you?”
“How are you feeling?” he asks, deflecting.
I turn back to the ceiling. “Confused.”
Our muscles are sore from the adrenaline and stress, and he winces as he slowly sits up and places his hand on my forehead. “What confuses you, babe?”
“Do you think Lassio knew he was going to die? Like, if Pete hadn’t killed him, do you think something else would have?”
He rubs his face. “Maybe don’t spend too much energy figuring him out.”
I tap the sheets. “He wrote the letter not long before he died. Why would he do that? If he didn’t know he was going to die… Maybe it was an update to a letter he had already written? The timing seems weird, right?”
Stroking my cheek with this thumb, he shrugs, “Maybe.”
“And he told me my father was dead as if I didn’t already know. So, he’s definitely not connected to whomever sent the obituary, right?”
He nods slowly. “Maybe.”
“And the money from Lorez, the obituary… Lorez told me to leave this alone, that it was something big, and that I should just live my life, and that was my plan until…” I trail off.
“Colin,” I whisper, “Pete was so angry. The kind of fury people exhibit when they feel betrayed. And I have no idea what happened between the lawyer’s office and last night that gave him that impression, to think that I betrayed him.”
“Ra'Shelle,” his voice cracks, “you don’t need to do this right now. You definitely need to talk to someone, but there’s no point in reliving it this morning. Let’s just focus on one thing at a time. Starting with breakfast.”
“I need answers, Colin, I say, looking over at him. “Information makes me feel safe. The more information I have, the safer I’ll feel. I need to find the answers.”
Colin takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. “Okay.” He kisses my forehead. “Where do we start?”
I smile up at him. “Thanks for the support.”
“Always.”
“The obituary said that services for my father were held at Temple Beth Israel.”
“I vaguely remember that, yes.”
“There isn’t one anywhere close to us. A lot of synagogues use ‘Congregation’ now instead of Temple, and while it’s possible they changed their name in the last ten years, my gut says that it’s not here.”
“Your gut is usually right.”
“So, I’m supposed to call Directory Assistance and just ask for every… crap, I don’t remember her name. Susan? Sharon? Sahiba? Siah?” I close my eyes.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Recall.
“Simone. I’m supposed to call Information and ask for every Simone Dawson in the country and simultaneously hope that she didn’t remarry or change her name? And also that she’ll speak to me and know something?”
“Maybe hire a PI?” he offers.
I snicker. “You know what’d be really funny? Oh, God, you know what would… Oh, can you imagine? And with Pete’s job… I mean, honestly?” I cover my face as my laughter becomes louder, nearly hysterical. A shrink would definitely have a word for me right now.
“Ra'Shelle, what is it?”
I giggle and cough as I attempt to regain my composure. “I’m sorry; I know it’s stupid, but I have to try. Just in case.”
“Try what?”
I swing my hand to the nightstand and pick up the phone.
“Directory Assistance.”
“Hi, yes,” I say, attempting to stifle my laughter. “I’m looking for the number for Simone Dawson in San Diego, California.”
“D-A-W-S-O-N?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
A long pause follows before the woman’s voice returns. “Yes, ma’am. The number is six-one-nine–”
“Holy, shit,” I enunciate. “I’m sorry, sorry, not directed at you. Give me a second.” I sit up quickly and grab a pen and notepad from the nightstand. “Okay, yeah, I guess I’m ready.” I write quickly as the woman rambles ten numbers. “Yeah, okay, thank you. Uh, actually, one more thing. Can you find the number for Temple Beth Israel, also in San Diego?” There’s another pause, and I write another ten digits. “Thank you so much.” I return the phone to its cradle and look at Colin.
“How much do you believe in coincidences?”
He sighs. “Less and less all the time.”