“Take your time. There’s no wrong answer.”
Someone came to her house the day after the funeral. They held a thick, pale envelope in their hands. They asked if they could come in, and she said yes. Something about them seemed trustworthy to her. She led them from the foyer into the living room, where everything was bathed in quiet light. She sat down on the couch, and they pulled a chair over so they were sitting across the coffee table from her.
They made eye contact with her. Their eyes were impassive, like darkened mirrors. “I know this is a difficult time,” they said, “but the Bureau needs your assistance on something. We need you to look at some photographs. Can you do that?”
“The Bureau? Like the FBI?”
“No, not like the FBI.” They smiled. “Please, we need your assistance.”