I read.

The letter was from someone called Maria. I don’t know much about Jesse’s life before he died—he’s not exactly big on discussing it—but I do know that Maria de Silva was the name of the girl Jesse had been on his way to marry when he’d disappeared. Some cousin of his. I’d seen a picture of her once in a book. She was pretty hot, you know, for a girl in a hoopskirt who lived before plastic surgery. Or Maybelline.

And you could tell by the way she wrote that she knew it, too. That she was hot, I mean. Her letter was all about the parties she’d been to, and who had said what about her new bonnet. Her bonnet, for crying out loud. I swear to God, it was like reading a letter from Kelly Prescott, except that it had a bunch of hithers and alacks in it, and no mention of Ricky Martin. Plus a lot of stuff was spelled wrong. Maria may have been a babe, but it was pretty clear, after reading her letters, she hadn’t won too many spelling bees back at ye olde schoolhouse.

What struck me, as I read, was the fact that it really didn’t seem possible that the girl who had written these letters was the same girl who had, I was pretty sure, ordered a hit on her fiancé. Because I happened to know that Maria hadn’t wanted to marry Jesse at all. Her dad had arranged the whole thing. Maria had wanted to marry this other guy, this dude named Diego, who ran slaves for a living. A real charming guy. In fact, Diego was the one I suspected had killed Jesse.

Not, of course, that Jesse had ever mentioned any of this—or anything at all, for that matter, about his past. He is, and always has been, completely tight-lipped on the whole subject of how he’d died. Which I guess I can understand: Getting murdered has to be a bit traumatizing.

But I must say it’s kind of hard getting to the bottom of why he’s still here after all this time when he won’t contribute at all to the conversation. I had had to find out all of this stuff from a book on the history of Salinas County that Doc had dug up out of the local library.

So I guess you could say that I read Maria’s letters with a certain sense of foreboding. I mean, I was pretty much convinced I was going to find something in them that was going to prove Jesse had been murdered…and who’d done it.

But the last letter was just as fatuous as the other four. There was nothing, nothing at all to indicate any wrongdoing of any kind on Maria’s part…except for maybe a complete inability to spell the word fiancé. And really, what sort of crime is that?

I folded the letters carefully again and stuck them back into the tin, realizing, as I did so, that the back of my neck, as well as my hands, was no longer sweating. Was I relieved that there was nothing incriminating here, nothing that helped solve the mystery of Jesse’s death?

I guess so. Selfish of me, I know, but it’s the truth. All I knew now was what Maria de Silva had worn to some party at the Spanish ambassador’s house. Big deal. Why would anybody stick letters as innocuous as that into a cigar box and bury them? It made no sense.

“Interesting, aren’t they?” my mother said when I stood up.

I jumped about a mile. I’d forgotten she was even there. She was in bed now, reading a book on how to be a more effective time manager.

“Yeah,” I said, putting the letters back on Andy’s dresser. “Really interesting. I’m so glad I know what the ambassador’s son said when he saw Maria de Silva in her new silver gauze ballgown.”

My mom looked up at me curiously through the lenses of her reading glasses. “Oh, did she mention her last name somewhere? Because Andy and I were wondering. We didn’t see it. De Silva, did you say?”

I blinked. “Um,” I said. “No. Well, she didn’t say. But Doc and I…I mean, David, he told me about this family, the de Silvas, that lived in Salinas around that time, and they had a daughter called Maria, and I just…” My voice trailed off as Andy came into the room.

“Hey, Suze,” he said, looking a little surprised to see me in his room, since I’d never set foot in there before. “Did you see the letters? Neat, huh?”

Neat. Oh my God. Neat.

“Yeah,” I said. “Gotta go. Good night.”

I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I don’t know how kids whose parents have been married multiple times deal with it. I mean, my mother’s only remarried once, and to a perfectly nice man. But still, it’s just so weird.

But if I’d thought I could retreat to my room to be alone and think things over, I was wrong. Jesse was sitting on my window seat.

Sitting there looking like he always looked: totally hot, in the white open-necked shirt and black toreador pants he habitually wears—well, it’s not like you can change clothes in the after-life—with his short dark hair curling crisply against the back of his neck, and his liquid black eyes bright beneath equally inky brows, one of which bore a thin white scar….

A scar that, more times than I like to admit, I’d dreamed of tracing with my fingertips.

He looked up when I came in—he had Spike, my cat, on his lap—and said, “This book is very difficult to understand.” He was reading a copy of First Blood, by David Morrell, which they based the movie Rambo on.

I blinked, trying to rouse myself from the dazed stupor the sight of him always seemed to put me in for a minute or so.

“If Sylvester Stallone understood it,” I said, “I would think you could.”

Jesse ignored that. “Marx predicted that the contradictions and weaknesses within the capitalist structure would cause increasingly severe economic crises and deepening impoverishment of the working class,” he said, “which would eventually revolt and seize control of the means of production…which is precisely what happened in Vietnam. What induced the U.S. government to think that they were justified in involving themselves in the struggle of the people of this developing nation to find economic solidarity?”

My shoulders sagged. Really, is it too much to ask that I be able to come home from a long day of work and relax? Oh, no. I have to come home and read a bunch of letters written to the love of my life by his fiancée, who, if I am correct, had him killed a hundred and fifty years ago.

Then, as if that is not bad enough, he wants me to explain the Vietnam War.

I really have to start hiding my textbooks from him. The thing is, he reads them and actually manages to retain what they say, and then applies that to other things he finds to read around the house.