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her scent, longing for her return.
    He unfolded the paper and stared. Her handwriting was elegant, stylized from her Catholic school education. The tear-smudged lettering gave him pause.
     
Michael,
This is the hardest letter I’ve ever had to write but I know my pain pales next to what you are feeling as you now read my last words. Please know that my love for you runs eternal; that the short life we had together was a lifetime’s worth of passion; that the joy you gave me was greater than I could ever have wished for.
My heart is breaking knowing that I have left you alone in the world, left you without children to call your own, left you without family to comfort you as you mourn. No one knows you better than I, Michael, and I know you will try to bury your pain, your anguish, but I implore you not to, for it will eat you up, turning your good heart bitter.
You probably haven’t worn this jacket for many months, you’ve probably worn nothing but that black leather jacket, which is so beaten up and dirty. I’m glad to see you’ve finally put on something decent.
     
    Michael smiled at her insight.
     
Not to be a nag but…You must be sure to eat at least one healthy meal a month, take your clothes to the laundry, and, above all, please remember to shave more often so as not to hide your handsome face.
     
    Michael ran his hand down his scraggly beard and smiled again.
     
You have so much love to share, and as angry as it will make you, I must tell you to try and find love again. To have someone so caring as yourself alone, without anyone to feel your love, is a waste. I will not dwell on this, as I don’t want to upset you. You will know when the time is right, and I assure you that time will one day come.
Which leads me back to my real purpose, why I have brought pen to paper for the last time. It is to ask you to finally seek out something for yourself, to do something selfish. We had spoken of it many times but life always seemed to get in the way.
They are out there, Michael, somewhere in this world. And you, with your talents, with your skills, should be able to find them.
I had hoped to have found them for you. I had quietly begun looking, going back through birth records, trying to contact people who worked at the orphanage where the St. Pierres adopted you. But everywhere I turned, I kept coming up with dead ends. All I have to give you is the address of an attorney who does pro bono work for St. Catherine’s. I received his name from a woman I met while searching the birth records of Boston hospitals.
But I know you, Michael, and your propensity to put yourself last; that is why I am not asking you to find your real parents for yourself, but for me. It is my last request, one that will allow me to go to my final rest knowing that you are not alone in this world. Family has a way of making us whole, filling the emptiness that pervades our hearts, restoring the hope that we think is forever lost.
I love you, Michael. I will always love you, I will always be with you, eternally within your heart.
Your wife, your lover, your best friend,
Mary
     
    On the bottom of the letter was a penciled-in address: 22 Franklin Street, Boston.
    Michael looked at her words one last time, folded the letter, placed it in the envelope, and tucked it back in his jacket pocket.

 
     

     
Chapter 3
     
    I t was the beginning of June and they were already five days into the first heat wave of the year. And of all nights to lose the air-conditioning, this was the worst. The air was so hot that it seemed to sear the lungs upon each breath. And it just hung there, unmoving, no circulation, as if to embrace victims until they succumbed to the heat. Paul Busch was sure the take at the bar would more than triple the usual evening’s count; people were buying drinks strictly for the ice, and that was melting away within minutes. It was beginning to put him on edge; the inebriation was communal, the air temperature was unbearable. All