Maya turned the paper over, then beckoned me closer.
“David, look at the loop on the letter G in this note,” she said, pointing to the word green.
I leaned over the bed, looking at the distinctive, oversized loop.
“Now look at this,” Maya said, reaching into her bedside drawer.
She pulled out the original handwritten note we had found on the kitchen counter in our freezing apartment on New Year’s Eve.
She placed the two papers side by side on the overbed table.
The slanted letters, the sharp crossings of the Ts, and the heavy pressure on the downstrokes were identical.
“She wrote them both,” I said.
“The first one was to leave me behind,” Maya said, her voice steady but cold. “The second one is to get her money back.”
I took both pieces of paper from the table.
I folded the apology note and put it in my pocket, unconvinced.
