The Never List

before I opened it up. It was jammed full. I hesitated for only a second before pulling out a few pieces of mail. Already here I was, day one of this journey, breaking federal law. But at least I could tell I had the right place.
    The mailbox contained mostly bills and advertising flyers. I reached underneath the pile and checked the postmark of the phone bill on the very bottom. It was dated three weeks ago. Strange that she hadn’t had the post office hold her mail if she had expected to be gone so long. But then, maybe I was the only one who planned ahead like that.
    After flipping through the stack to make sure there was nothing from the penitentiary, I shoved it all back in and returned to my car, unsure of my next steps. I sat there for a few minutes, thinking. Since I’d made this trip to Keeler, I might as well explore every avenue, so I decided to stop off at the coffee shop I had passed on my way here. This was a small town—maybe they knew her.
    It was a quaint silver train car diner, bright and welcoming inside,right on the little town green. I chose the counter instead of one of the empty booths and ordered a coffee, trying my best to look friendly. I forced a smile.
    I could see my face reflected in the mirror behind the counter. My eyes were bloodshot from the flight, my hair disheveled. Yep, total freak, I thought. I stopped smiling. When the waitress came over to refill my cup, I almost lunged across the bar at her. Awkwardness personified. I was clearly out of practice when it came to human contact.
    “Do you know Sylvia Dunham, by any chance?” I asked in my best casual voice, which couldn’t have sounded less so. I was cursing my ineptitude inside, but the waitress didn’t even look up from pouring.
    “Sure, I know her.” Her cool response made me realize there might be a lot of crime tourists who came in here curious about Sylvia Dunham. She had to be famous in this town. And there were people weirder than I was, I knew. Voyeuristic types who planned their vacations around crime scene destinations. I had to come up with something to distinguish myself from that particular brand of crazy. Yet I hadn’t planned to do anything more than confront Sylvia on this trip. I hadn’t exactly prepared for snooping this way, and I certainly wasn’t ready to announce to the world who I really was, after all these years.
    “I’m … I’m writing a book,” I stuttered.
    “Yep.” She still didn’t look up as she wiped away a tiny drop of coffee I’d spilled earlier. I realized my mistake. I probably wasn’t the only person trying to write a book on it either. I knew I was going to have to come up with something a little smoother, if I was going to do this for real.
    Finally, she paused and glanced up at me.
    “Look, some people like the extra business we get from tourists poking around here about this lady. And some people don’t. I have to say I don’t. I don’t want this guy coming to live here when he gets out. Don’t want anything to do with it. Now my husband, he’sof a different opinion. He doesn’t have much else going on. I’m sure he’d talk your ear off about this subject.” She sighed. “He’ll be here at five to pick me up, if you want to ask him about it.”
    I made a quick calculation. If I stayed until five, and talked to him for no more than fifteen minutes, I could still make it back to the hotel before it was fully dark. It was only four-fifteen now, though, so I’d need something to do until then. I thanked the waitress, paid, and told her I’d be back.
    To pass the time, I walked around the neat town square, admiring its fresh-cut green lawn and the white-painted benches set out around the perimeter. I stopped in front of the prim white church on the corner. Maybe this was the one. Her church. I walked in and found it empty except for a woman vacuuming in front of the altar, her graying hair pulled up in a wispy, messy bun, her glasses chain swaying with her swift, thorough movements. I waved to her uncertainly, and she immediately switched off the vacuum, wiped her hands on her small apron, and walked briskly over to me.
    “Can I help you?” she said, in what I thought was a not-very-churchlike manner. What if I were a little lost lamb looking for redemption? I cleared my throat, not sure what I could say to make me seem like I wasn’t the interloper I was.
    “Yes, I—my name is Caroline Morrow, and I’m trying to track down an old friend of mine who