Page 28 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

“I’m surprised you know about Nancy Drew.”

She gave a dismissive shrug. “My mom had a whole set. They’re probably still in the basement, actually.”

Veronica nodded. She’d had a set, too, but Jenna had never cared about reading them. She’d keep that to herself, trying to keep the employee-employer balance rather than mother-daughter. “What was her connection to India?”

“I don’t know a lot. She lived there when she was young, a study-abroad thing. She was pretty heavily influenced by Indian styles of cooking after that, particularly north Indian and Parsi.”

“I’m not familiar with Parsi cooking.”

“I’m not, either, honestly, so we can figure it out together.”

“Do you like to cook, Mariah?”

She snorted. “Nope. I like to eat, though.”

Someone knocked on the door and Veronica got up. It was Henry, freshly shaved and casual in a chambray shirt and a photographer’s vest with a million pockets, and a camera backpack over his shoulder. “Hello, again,” he said in that velvety voice.

“Hello.” Veronica tugged up her sleeves as he passed, smelling oak and sandalwood. “We’re just finishing up. Do you want a cup for some coffee?” She paused in the kitchen, awaiting his answer.

“Sure,” he said, taking the empty chair with his back to the window. He took up a lot of space with long legs and elbows and shoulders.

“How was your ‘assignment’?” Mariah asked, putting the quotes in the air.

“It was fine,” Henry said, shrugging.

Veronica handed him a cup, and forced herself not to ask if he wanted cream and sugar. It wasn’t her job to wait on him. But maybe it would have just been nice?

Stop.She sat down and eyed the rest of her toast.

“What’s the first stop today, Henry?” Mariah asked, brushing crumbs from her palms.

“Café Guli. We can wander around in the area, if you like. Your mom liked it there.”

“I remember,” Mariah snapped. She shoved away from the table. “I have to braid my hair.”

Veronica watched her go. “How long since her mom died?”

“You don’t know?”

“No. What?”

He shook his head. “It’s her story to tell. But it’s been about sixteen months, maybe a bit more.”

“Young,” she said.

“Yes,” he said gruffly.

She stood and placed the plates on the tray. “I’ll get a coat.”

“I don’t mean to be curt,” he said. “It’s just ... sensitive.”

His apology surprised her. “I’m sure she’ll tell me when she trusts me enough.”

“Maybe.”

A loud bang sounded from outside, followed by a flurry of shouting. Henry jumped up to look through the window. “Nasty crash in the intersection,” he said.

“Do you call 911 here?”