“Of course I recognized it. My granddaughter wrote it for me. Well . . . that’s not quite right,” he amends, more to himself than to me. “I sang it to her first, so I guess I wrote it, really. But she’s the one who figured it out on the piano.”
He’s silent for a moment, then continues. “So, let me get this straight. You’re saying you didn’t know Molly before . . . before she died. But yet you know all this stuff somehow. Did she write it down, or what? I mean, I didn’t see her or her mama much those last few months. If Molly left some sort of message or diary or somethin’ and you found it, why not just give it to me now and save us both a lot of trouble? Are you expectin’ me to offer you some sorta reward?”
“I don’t want your money. I’m not even sure I want to help you anymore. I would like my phone back, however.”
He turns the phone over in his hand but still doesn’t give it to me. “I know you sent that text message to yourself—it’s from your own number.”
“Of course it’s from my number,” I say, rolling my eyes. “You think Molly has a phone? She’s dead.”
Porter glares at me and I look down again, taking a sip from the cocoa before I continue. “It was a lot to remember, and Molly wanted to be sure it was in her words. If I’d known you were going to steal my phone I’d have made her write it down on a sheet of paper.”
“As you just reminded me, Molly’s dead. Been dead goin’ on three years. How’s she gonna be writin’ anything down?”
And we’ve now reached the part where Porter will decide I’m crazy. Mad as a hatter. Nutty as a fruitcake—pick your favorite metaphor and run with it. I’ve tried explaining this before. It never comes out sounding sane, even to my own ears.
“I let Molly . . . borrow me. For a little while. I don’t usually do that. But Molly was persistent. She said it was important. That you could find this guy and stop him. That she could help. That other people might die too, if I didn’t.”
He leans forward across the table and looks directly at me, clearly hoping my eyes will dart away or I’ll give some indication of a lie. I hold his stare, and after a moment he leans back in the chair again. “Yeah. Right. So, answer me this. Why now? Why not back in 2016, when there were a few half-decent leads? Why not when they found her body?”
I shrug. “It’s not like she could contact you on her own, Mr. Porter. I didn’t show up at the shelter until late February. That’s where I picked up Molly. The one over on U Street?” He nods, either recognizing the shelter or simply meaning for me to get on with it. “And . . . it took a while for her to convince me.”
That’s a major understatement. I’ll usually help them if it’s something I can do easily, but I don’t contact friends or family directly. Ever. They all have issues, they all have some last urgent message they want to deliver, an I love you or I’m sorry that was never said. I don’t back down on this anymore, because getting involved only brings me trouble—and it’s pretty clear this time is not going to be the exception to that rule.
Porter waits, but I don’t have anything else to give him. Why even bother? I should just go. Does he want to know how I picked up Molly when my fingers brushed the piano keys at the shelter? Does he want to know why she can communicate with me but not with anyone else? I don’t even have the answers to those questions, so good luck, buddy.
“Why am I even here?” he asks, echoing my own thoughts. “You need help, girl. Serious help. This kind of harassment ain’t right, and I know you’ve been in the nut hou—institutionalized,” he corrects, “on more than one occasion. I called your doctor and—”
I push away from the table, sloshing cocoa onto the black linoleum as I get to my feet. “You called my doctor?”
Enough. I reach over, snatch the phone from his hand, and turn toward the door. Molly protests, but I tamp her down, hard.
This isn’t going to work, Molly. I’m sorry, but no.
“Wai-wai-wait a minute, girl,” Porter says. “Hold on. Hold on. I called her, yeah, but she didn’t tell me jack, other than that I’d better return your phone or she’d help you find a lawyer. Said the only way she’d discuss anything with me is with your consent and then only what you authorized her to discuss.” He grabs my arm, not hard like before, just a gentle pressure, pulling me toward the table. “Sit back down, finish your hot chocolate. Okay?”
Please, Anna! Give him a chance. He was a detective—nosing around is what he does. Please.
I sit down but stay on the edge of my chair, hoping to signal that this is a very shaky truce.