Everywhere That Mary Went - Lisa Scottoline

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when I remember it might be because of my mother’s eyesight.

      “You want some cannoli, honey?” my father asks tenderly. He throws an arm around my shoulder.

      “You got the chocolate chip, don’t you? ’Cause if you don’t, I’m leaving. I’ve had it with the service at this place.”

      “What kinda father would I be that I don’t have the chocolate chip? Huh?” He gives me a squeeze and we walk into the kitchen together.

      My mother clucks about the cold coffee as we sit down, and Angie joins us at the table. My father’s soft shoulders slump over his coffee. We carry on the conversation around him, and my mother chatters anxiously through dessert. Something’s wrong, but I can’t figure out what it is. Angie senses it too, because after my father declines a cannoli for the second time, she gives me a discreet nudge.

      “Pop,” I say, “Have a cannoli. I’m eating alone here.”

      He doesn’t even look up. I don’t know if he doesn’t hear me or what. Angie and I exchange glances.

      “Pop!” Angie shouts. “You okay?”

      My mother touches my hand. “Let him be. He’s just tired.”

      My father looks up, and his milky brown eyes are wet. He squeezes them with two calloused fingers.

      My mother deftly passes him a napkin. “Isn’t that right, Matty? You’re tired?”

      “Ah, yeah. I’m tired.” He nods.

      “You’re leading the witness, Ma,” I say.

      She waves me off like an annoying fly. “Your father and I were talking about Frank Rizzo last night. Remember, it was this time of year, Rizzo had the heart attack. It’s a sin. He coulda been mayor again.”

      My father seems lost in thought. He says, half to himself, “So sudden. So young. We couldn’t prepare.”

      “It’s a sin,” repeats my mother, rubbing his back. With her lipstick all gone, her lips look bloodless.

      “Pop, Rizzo was almost eighty,” I say, but Angie’s look silences me. Her eyes tell me who they’re grieving for. The one who loved percolated coffee, the Phillies, and even an occasional cigar—Mike. I feel a stab of pain inside; I wonder when this will stop happening. I rise stiffly. “I better get going. It’s a school night.”

      My parents huddle together at the table, looking frozen and small.

      Angie clears her throat. “Me too. I have to change back.”

      I walk to the screen door with its silly scrollwork D, looking out into the cool, foggy night. I remember nights like this from when I was little. The neighbors would sit out in beach chairs, the women gossiping in Italian and the men playing mora. Angie and I would sit on the marble stoop in our matching pajamas like twin mascots. It was a long time ago.

      I wish I could feel that air again.

      I open the screen door and walk down the front steps onto the sidewalk. The air is chilled from the fog, which hangs as low as the thick silver stanchions put in to thwart parking on the sidewalk. A dumb idea—all it does is force people to double-park on the main streets. Like my father says, in South Philly the cars are bigger than the houses.

      Suddenly a powerful car barrels by, driving much too fast for this narrow street. It comes so near the curb in front of me that I feel a cold chill in its wake.

      “Hey, buddy!” I shout after him, then do a double-take. It looks just like the car from last night.

      I run into the middle of the street, squinting in the darkness. I catch sight of the car’s flame-red taillights as it turns right at the top of the street and disappears into the dark. My father comes out of the house, followed by my mother.

      “Pop! Did you see that car? What kind of car was that? Was that an Oldsmobile?”

      “What?” He cups a hand behind his ear, making a lumpy silhouette in front of the screen door.

      “Ma! Did you see that car?”

      “What car?” she hollers, from behind her bulletproof glasses.

      Behind them both, at a distance, is Angie.

      “I would say this is Evil mail, wouldn’t you?” Brent asks grimly. He holds up a piece of white paper that reads:

      CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR PARTNERSHIP, MARY

      The letters are typed in capitals. It looks computer-generated, like the laser printers we use at Stalling. State-of-the-art. The paper is smooth. The note is unsigned.

      I read it again. “Weird.”

      “Very.”

      “It’s not a nice note, is it?”

      “No.” Brent’s face looks tight.

      “Who do you think it’s from?”

      “I have no idea. There’s no return address, either.”

      “Let me see.” I take the envelope, a plain white business envelope, and flip it over. On the front is my name and Stalling’s address in capital letters. Also laser-printed. The stamp is a tiny American flag. “I don’t understand.”

      “I do.”

      “What?”

      “I think somebody’s jealous of you, that’s what I think. The news about your motion is all over the department. Everybody knows you won before Bitterman. It was a big deal for an associate. I even heard it in the secretaries’ lunchroom, so you know the lawyers are talking about it.”

      “Really?”

      “Sure. You’re a star, kid. Your enemies will be comin’ out of the woodwork now. It just proves my theory.”

      “What theory?”

      “I never told you my theory?”

      “You told me your cancellation theory, about how assholes marry each other. You never told me your theory about hate mail.”

      “Well. My theory is that you find out who your true friends are when something good happens to you, not when something bad happens to you. Everybody loves you when something bad happens to you. Then you’re easy to love.”

      “That’s sick, Brent.”

      “But true. And this is a good example. There must be somebody who you think is your friend, but who isn’t really. Not a true friend. They’re jealous as shit of you, secretly competing with you. Whoever it is, they smile in your face.”

      His words make me uneasy. “Who?”

      “Think about it. Who’s competing with you right now to make partner? Judy and Ned. We know it can’t be Judy, so that leaves Ned. I never liked that guy.” He looks bitter.

      My thoughts race ahead. Is the note connected to the car? To the phone calls? Is it one person or more than one? Holy Christ. I hand Brent the envelope. I don’t even want it in my hand.

      It’s getting worse, says the Mike-voice. First the calls. Then the car. Now a note.

      “Mary? You okay?”

      I plop down into my chair. “I think this has something to do with the phone calls.”

      “Mystery Man?”

      “Brent, something’s the matter.”

      “What?”

      “Close the door, okay?”

      “Mare, what’s going on?” He shuts the door and sinks into one of the chairs opposite my desk.

      “I think

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