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her driver’s side door shut so she couldn’t open it.
    “Leave me the fuck alone,” she said, with a mix of terror and anger, and a touch of resignation. I played on it.
    “I was at the café. Please, I need your help.”
    She wore a sweatshirt with a Tsingtao logo. She was tall and thin, with smooth, pale skin. Her face was mildly round, suggesting cheeriness in some circumstances, but at that moment just as if it had been slightly overinflated with air.
    When she spoke again, it was less with venom and fear and with more than a little confidence. “Are you going to let me go? Or am I going to start screaming and kicking?”
    I pulled my hand away from the door.
    “I don’t know who you think I am,” I said. “But I just need your help. I mean you no harm.”
    Even as I said it, I had to wonder whether I meant it entirely. After all, she was aggressively fleeing the scene.
    “You’ve got the wrong person.”
    I shook my head. Wrong person? She wasn’t Erin, the café waitress? Then I realized that wasn’t what she meant. What exactly she did mean wasn’t clear. I didn’t figure I’d get a chance to ask, not without a subpoena. But instead of closing the door, she put her hand over its top, curling her fingers down over the window. For the first time, she seemed to study me.
    “There are reporters everywhere,” she said. “I came here to think, and to . . . clear my head.”
    It struck me she could be suffering from a muted version of post-traumatic stress disorder. She was highly alert and sensitive, her responses exaggerated.
    “Give me five minutes of your time.” I tried to affect my least threatening tone. “I saw your picture in the paper. I needed to talk to a fellow café survivor. I . . . I lost someone . . . ”
    I launched into a concise version of what had happened to me at the café.
    “This woman saved my life. I thought maybe you’d seen her too.” I didn’t bother to mention Annie. I did say, “I know it sounds insane.”
    She listened. She closed her eyes, seemingly concentrating, but part of me wondered if her pause was affect. “I didn’t see a woman leave the café. I didn’t see anyone hand you a note, but I do remember you,” she finally said. “You ordered at the counter then sat by the rack where we keep the magazines. I was trying to figure out if and when you’d need a refill or something to eat. Maybe the person you’re talking about never sat down. I tend not to notice people unless they’re sitting at a table.”
    I clenched my teeth and spoke with an edge. “She had long hair. You’re sure you didn’t see her?”
    “I was on my break in the back, checking e-mail. I went to the bathroom just before the explosion. Maybe that’s when she showed up.”
    I couldn’t repress the confrontational question bubbling from my gut. “Why did you pick just that moment to go to the bathroom—right before the explosion?”
    “This conversation is over.”
    “Erin . . . ”
    She opened her car door. She looked at me intently.
    “What’s
your
sin?”
    “What does that mean?”
    “Please, I need to go. Let’s continue this later,” she said.
    She scribbled her cell phone number on a piece of paper and handed it to me. As she pulled off, I realized she’d written down only six digits. Just then, my own phone rang. I answered, and heard an unfamiliar voice.
    “Nathaniel, it’s Danny Weller.” The policeman from the café.
    “Sergeant,” I said.
    I could hear traffic in the background. “Listen, I’m wondering if you have a few minutes to get together,” he said. “I thought you should know about some interesting developments.”

9
    W hen I got to the Bus Stop Bar, Sergeant Danny Weller was already there. He was seated in a booth near the back, wearing a button-down shirt, and looking more like a dentist than a cop. He was nose deep in a newspaper. Beside him sat a dark-skinned cop in uniform who was at least a head taller and thick, scrawling on some