I’ll decide what to do. That takes about three minutes. Back in the kitchen, I stare at the envelope like it might reveal a set of instructions. It’s sealed, but only at the bottom where the tip of the triangle meets the envelope back. I run my finger along the underside of the crease. It wouldn’t take much to open it up.
I fill the kettle with water and place it on the back of the stove. You can steam an envelope open. That’s a thing, right?
While I wait for the water to boil, I take the flash drive and slip into Emilia’s office. She’s taken her laptop with her to Amagansett, naturally, but the giant desktop computer she uses for her graphic design work beckons. The flash drive is hot in my palm; I know it’s none of my business what’s on it, but … it feels like my business now. I take a step toward Emilia’s desk. In for a penny, in for a pound. The computer’s probably password-protected anyway.
It’s not. I guess when you run a home office with zero employees, there isn’t a big call for computer security. She probably keeps all her personal stuff on her laptop. While I wait for the flash drive icon to pop up on the desktop, my eyes rove over Emilia’s document folders. They’re mostly client files, sorted by project. Standard stuff. I click open a folder for Wayfare + Ramble, Zoe’s mom’s magazine. Inside are a small handful of project sub-folders that look like they date back years, to before I was even born.
The USB DISK icon pops up on the desktop, and I close out of Emilia’s documents. I double-click, not sure what I’m hoping—or not hoping—to find. There are two folders, labeled CTdocs and CTphotos CT is presumably Caden Talbot; seems fairly self-explanatory if not very creative. I open the photo folder first.
Inside is a list of fifteen or so images with generic file names like IMG_2252.JPG. I click to open the photo at the top of the list.
It’s a candid shot of a beautiful African American girl, eyes shut and mouth flung open in laughter. She’s Caden’s age, give or take. Maybe a little older. And she’s definitely not Zoe. Her hair is natural and long and tied back in a red and orange scarf.
I click open the second photo. In this one, Caden and the same girl are together, leaning toward each other across a table in a dimly lit coffee shop. Caden’s taking the photo; you can see his arm extended to hold out the phone. The photo has to be recent—Caden looks like himself, and besides, Martina’s podcast said he and Zoe had been together since the summer after ninth grade. If this was taken any time in the last five years, it was taken while he was with Zoe.
I scroll through file information on the remaining images. It’s consistent throughout. Created: Saturday, November 30, at 3:46 P.M. Last opened: Saturday, January 4, at 11:48 P.M. These are from last year—from exactly a month before Zoe vanished. Last opened four days after she disappeared. I click rapidly through the remaining photos. They’re all shots of the same girl, either alone or with Caden. They’re not explicitly romantic—no kissing, no bodies intertwined—but there’s something about the pictures that is indisputably intimate. I try to imagine why Caden would leave this in the stable for Zoe to find, in the nightstand drawer directly below the card addressed to her, but I come up empty.
I navigate to the other folder, CTdocs. Before I can explore its contents, a shrill whistling sounds from the front of the house. My back stiffens, then I burst out laughing. The teakettle.
Inside the kitchen, I hold the envelope over the steam. This works in the movies. At first, nothing happens, and I move the envelope closer to the kettle mouth. After ten seconds, twenty, the paper wrinkles. The envelope comes undone.
I don’t stop to wonder if it worked because the envelope was only sealed at the tip, or if it was because it was sealed so long ago—presumably six months, if it lines up with Zoe’s disappearance. I just slide out the card and place the envelope gingerly on the countertop.
The card is made of thick, textured cream paper. I’m sorry is embossed across its front in rose-gold script.
Inside, I find the following message:
If you’re reading this, you came home, or you want to. I’m so sorry, Zoe. I promise I’ll explain