For the next month, Sovie and I saw or talked to each other every day.

She was a history major, like I had been, and had a boyfriend, Chad, who I met and liked very much. I gave her my blood father’s stack of Fantastic Four comics, saying that it was the only thing of value I owned. She didn’t like comic books but took them anyway. I don’t know why, but giving her those magazines felt like taking a two-ton weight off my skull.

Another month later, on a Saturday, I was cleaning my apartment to prepare for her and her roommate, Ashanti Bowles, to come over for dinner the next day.

When the knock came on the door, I didn’t think before opening it.

Lance Harding was wearing a pink suit with a red shirt and no tie. I wondered then if agents of the FRC had a dress code.

“Mr. Vaness,” he said.

“I’m so glad to see you,” I said, opening the door wide and ushering him into my clean house. “Come in, come in.”

Sitting in the same chairs as before, we faced each other. Harding crossed his left leg over the right one and nodded.

“I wanted to call you, but I couldn’t find a number for the FRC in the Yellow Pages,” I said. “I planned to get on somebody’s computer and look it up soon.”

“Why were you looking for us?”

“For you,” I said. “I wanted to ask you something that I didn’t think of the last time we met.”

“And what was that?”

“You mentioned my real father when we talked before. Do you know when he died?”

When Harding reached into his breast pocket, I was reminded of the fear I’d had of him the first time he sat at my table.

He came out with a small notepad and flipped through the pages. He stopped for a moment, read something, and then turned a leaf.

“In 1974,” he said, “when you were two years old. He was found murdered in the home of a young prostitute named Pearl Watson.”

“Do you know if anybody claimed the body?”

“Have you gone to see your daughter?” the FRC agent asked.

“How do you even know to ask that?”

“I’m here with another wish.”

“Another $5,000?”

“Have you visited your daughter?”

“Yes. Yes I have.”

“Do you love her?”

“I do. This has to do with Seth’s last wish?”

Instead of answering, Harding took another ivory envelope from his pocket.

Again he handed me a letter.

Again I hesitated.

When at last I accepted the letter, I expected Harding to leap up and leave like he did the first time. But he remained seated, staring at me.

“I am supposed to wait for a reply,” he said.

“A reply to a dead man?”

Harding hunched his shoulders, and I tore open the envelope.

Dear Roger,

By now you’ve probably met Sovie, and I know because you’re reading this letter that you at least say that you love her. I’ve been telling Dearby that I’ve been visiting with Althea because she has cancer and is dying. Althea does have cancer and she is dying, but I’ve also been doing my old thing in her house on her phone. Seems like bookies are back in style. I couldn’t tell Dearby, because she’d want the money I’m making, and I needed that money for Sovie. I also needed to tell you about your daughter and to make sure that you cared for her.

The man sitting in front of you has a third envelope. This one has a legal document saying that the bearer should be allowed access to my safe-deposit box at Concordia Bank in downtown Cincinnati. There’s $137,941 in that box.

I saved that money for Sovie, but I owe you something too. And so you can either accept the document and help the child with her bills or you can turn the whole thing over to her and let her decide how to handle it.

It’s up to you, Brother.

Seth

I folded the note and put it in my pocket.

“I got another question for you, Mr. Harding.”

“Yes?”

“Do you take on trainee agents now and then?”

“Yes.”

“Could I apply for that job?”

“I can make the proper connections. I happen to need an assistant, and your background fits our major criteria.”

“Then you give that envelope you got in your pocket to Sojourner Alexander and send me the application form.”