It was a small, badly beat-up child’s baseball cap. I knew I hadn’t packed it—I hadn’t seen it in twenty years.
On the inside band, I could read “Kenny Huang” in faded ballpoint ink, written in my mother’s handwriting.
I threw it into the far darkness of the room and got dressed. Some hours later, I was driving to Maine in a rented car to pick blueberries.
For some weeks, I picked up a hometown paper whenever I could. The innocent driver who had been killed was Curtis Steadman, a geophysicist, aged forty-five. He had been married with one son and one daughter. The street pusher, Higgins, was of less interest. He had a long, violent record. Angela had been arrested, all right, and I followed her progress through the hearings and her indictment on one count of murder one and one count of
