Page 18 of Wrong Mail

Nothing moves behind the glass. No footsteps, no voice. Good.

I crouch and stand the envelope against the doorframe where he can't miss it. I’ve barely set it down when the door opens, and I’m still bent over it.

Was he standing on the other side the whole time?

"Well," he says. "Hello."

I straighten up too fast. I know him instantly and my stomach drops.

The man from the terrace.

He's taller close up. Mid-forties, dark hair going gray at one temple. He's in a plain gray T-shirt with a dish towel over his shoulder. There’s a smear of something white on his forearm. Caulk, maybe. Or paint. He looks like a man who has been putting a house together and is glad for the interruption. The smile he gives me is warm and entirely disarming.

That is exactly what I don't like about it.

"Oh, it's you. I mean, you were at Peggy's," I say.

“For about forty minutes. I was invited by a woman who wanted to know what I paid for the house, and once she found out, I stopped being interesting." He tilts his head. “You left early."

"I did."

"I don't blame you." He waits, pleasant and patient, and lets the silence do the work.

"Oh," I say, and point down at the envelope propped against his doorframe. I have to crouch and pick it up again, which somehow makes the whole thing worse.

"This came to my address." I hold it out. "It's got your name on it. The numbers on our houses are almost the same. Mine's 5261, and I think whoever's driving the route just mixed them up.” I stop. Start again, because there's no good way in. "I opened it. I mean, before I looked at the label. You see, I’d lost my glasses and I was going through a stack of deliveries and…well, I slit the top of it and I was three lines in before I understood it wasn't mine. Sorry."

He takes the envelope. He doesn't look at it. He looks at me.

"Ah, it was a simple mistake," he says. "We all make mistakes."

He says it kindly. It should be the end of it. A chill slips down the back of my neck and vanishes before I can name it.

"Right," I say.

"So…I guess you looked them over."

"Scanned. More like."

Now he does look down. He turns the envelope over once, and his manner turns careful.

"I appreciate you bringing it over,” he says. "I was wondering when they'd arrive."

I shift from one foot to the other.

"Listen, I know it was wrong. I'm not going to pretend it wasn't." My mouth is dry. "I just want to say I understand what those are. Whatever they are to you."

He's quiet for a second. Then he steps back and props his shoulder against the doorframe, and when he speaks, his voice has dropped out of its easy register.

"My sister," he says.

"I'm sorry?"

"One of them's my sister. Not in here. But the same.” He turns the packet in his hands. "It happened twelve years ago. She and her husband, in their home. Nobody was ever arrested. Nobody has ever told me a single true thing about it. And every few years I get it into my head that if I gather enough of the others, I'll see whatever they didn't." He looks up with a small, tired, self-deprecating smile. "My therapist thinks it's very unhealthy."

"Mine says the same thing to me," I say, before I can help it.

His eyes move over my face, unhurried.