In the annals of Anna Geller, there is no one more fortunate than Harvey Painter.
That’s what I was thinking, two days later, when I heard the front door open and close and then footsteps in the hallway.
I was seated at the kitchen table. The only light I’d left on in the house was the one above my head. I knew she would walk toward it.
She entered the room smiling and sat down across from me.
My heart was beating rapidly.
“Are you Harvey Painter?”
“Yes, I’m him. I’m Harvey.”
Her hair was short and black, the same color as the sweater and jeans she wore. Despite the years that had gone by, her eyes were familiar to me—they were unusually glittery. Hanging from one of her shoulders was a large purse made of wrinkled brown leather. If she was walking the streets of St. John’s right no
