Page 33 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

The woman spat out, “Is your mother Rachel Ellsworth?”

Stunned, Mariah stared. “Yes. How did you know that? Do you know her?”

The woman tsked loudly and stepped back, waving her hand. “Get out of my restaurant.”

“But we—”

“I will never speak to you. Leave now.”

Veronica stood up instinctively, using her body to shield Mariah. “We’ll go. Don’t worry. We just have to—”

“Go, now!” the woman shouted. Her hands were trembling as she pointed, and it seemed like fury, but also pain.

They gathered up their things and got out, everyone staring. Veronica’s hands shook with an emotion she couldn’t quite identify—the heat of protectiveness, the tangle of embarrassment, the wish to strike back.

In the alley outside, Veronica said, “Wow, what wasthatabout?”

Mariah’s face had drained of all color. She dropped her cane to limp hurriedly over to vomit in a nearby trash bin. Henry rushed toward her, taking her coat, which he threw over his shoulder as he held her shoulders. “Get her cane,” he barked to Veronica.

Veronica picked up the cane, holding the round of the carved lion’s head in her palm. She reached into her backpack and pulled out a bottle of water, holding it out when Mariah straightened, the back of her hand to her mouth. Strands of pale hair came loose from her braid and stuck to her cheek, illuminating the faint scar that pulled her mouth up so very slightly. She trembled visibly. Henry helped her into her jacket, and she leaned on him to drink the water.

What was going on here?Veronica thought. What had happened when Rachel went to India? “We’re going to need some more information, I think.”

Henry nodded grimly.

A man of about fifty, tidy, with short hair, had followed them out. “Is she all right, ma’am?”

Veronica frowned. “She’ll be all right, I think.”

“I’m sorry about that. My wife has strong opinions.”

“Why is she so furious?”

“That I do not know.” He clasped his hands in front of him. “I thought you might.”

Henry said, “She must have known Rachel Ellsworth. Is that name familiar to you?”

“The food writer, yes? Her book on vegetables is a classic.”

Mariah shivered. “I need to go home.”

Henry pulled a card from his front pocket. “If you think she might come around, give me a call. We’ll be in London for a week or so.”

Accepting the card, the man tilted his head side to side. “I doubt that will happen, sir, but I will remember.”

Mariah pressed her hand over her mouth.

“Let’s take a cab,” Veronica said.

Back at the hotel, Veronica walked Mariah to bed, helping her undress to her panties and a T-shirt. It was the first time she’d seen the scarred leg. The flesh held divots and lines and irregular fat pockets. “Ugly, isn’t it?” Mariah said, pulling her bra off through the sleeves of her T-shirt.

“Looks painful. It must have been quite a crash.”

Mariah was quiet for a moment, as if remembering. “You don’t know,” she said. “I just thought you were being nice, not talking about it.”

Veronica pulled the covers back, smoothed the pillows, and helped the young woman settle. Her color was still pale green. “We don’t have to go through it right now.”

“I don’t want to talk about it, ever,” she said, closing her eyes. “Google me. It’ll come up. Honestly, dude, it’s weird that you didn’t. What if I’d been lying about who I was?”