Chapter TwentyMatilda's blue and yellow townhouse in Brooklyn looked the same as it did three and a half years ago. No, three weeks, I corrected myself as I stepped forward and rang the doorbell. There was the sound of trilling birds from inside, heavy footsteps, and the middle-aged man from last time opened the door. He was dressed in comfortable jeans, a beige Henley V-neck shirt and tennis shoes, but the beads were still there, around his wrists, his neck.
His dark brown eyes bored into me, and although I knew I could take him, I wasn't here for a confrontation. I focused on his chin and said, “Hi, I'm here to see Matilda.”
“You look different,” he said–accused really–his voice firm and with an undertone of warning.
“Let her in, Derek,” Matilda called from within. “Only her.”
“I'm a
