“You have a mask?” Mrs. Chen asked me on our way in. “People still wear them here.”

“Always.” I pulled one out of my bag and put it on. It had become normal to carry one at all times, especially for taking public transit. That was ironic because New York’s subway was better ventilated than most buildings in the city, yet it remained a collective source of anxiety.

St. Adalbert’s looked like a church from an old lithograph, with its Gothic bell tower and clean white trim over sandy bricks. It had been founded when the neighborhood was Polish, and that was still part of its identity even in a diverse community—the notice board said the service after ours would be in Polish. My mind drifted as I stared at the stained-glass windows, much as I had as an antsy child. The sermon was about charity, and the word stuck in my brain. I’d been pulling at the threads of my sister’s life, but not that one, even though everywhere I went there were reminders of her philanthropy. Mrs. Chen frowned when I pulled out my phone and looked up the Diotima Civic Society. Dr. Adinah Gerstein’s contact information was on the site, and I tapped out a quick email, asking if we could talk in person, before mouthing a contrite “sorry” and tucking the phone away.

“Whose butt are you kicking today?” Mrs. Chen asked as we headed out after the service. She was almost my height, which made her unusually tall for a Chinese woman of her generation. She wore her hair in an angular bob, liked to wear black as much as I did, and never left the house without red lipstick.

“Why do you think I’m kicking anyone’s butt?”

“It’s what you do. Some people need kicking.”

“I’m going to see a woman who knew my sister,” I said. “Then I’m visiting my nephew. There’s a risk my brother-in-law will show up. In that case, you might have to bail me out of jail later.”

“Try not to let that happen.” She touched my cheek. “You need some rouge.”

I rolled my eyes, but inside, I was smiling. Mrs. Chen could drive Reagan crazy with her constant stream of unsolicited advice. Her daughter took it as criticism, but I looked at it differently. Mrs. Chen was one of the only people in the world who actually cared if my face was rosy. Or if I lived or died, for that matter. Nitpicking was her way of helping, and the truth was I needed that kind of help sometimes.

“Do you have any with you?” I asked.

“Of course.” She dug into her purse, pulled out a little pot of color with blooming flowers and Korean words on the lid, and dotted cream blush onto my cheekbones. “Better,” she added, rubbing it in. “Be careful when you’re out.”

“I try.”

“No, you don’t. You take too many risks.” She patted my arm. “But you are a good person.”

“I saw my father yesterday. He definitely doesn’t think I’m a good person.”

“Did he say that?”

“No. But we fought.”

“If you didn’t, something would be wrong.” She smiled again. “You are a good sister. You’re doing what’s right. Shuǐ dī shí chuān. You remember what that means?”

“Dripping water pierces a stone.”

“That’s right. You are strong. Tenacious. You will pierce the stone. Just be careful.”

“I’m careful.”

“Bad things never walk alone,” she warned. “Keep that in mind.”

CHAPTER 33

DEIRDRE

The Diotima website didn’t list a mailing address, but Adinah Gerstein sent me an address in Greenwich Village, at the corner of University Place and Twelfth Street. The building turned out to be doorman-free, so I let myself in and took the elevator up to the seventh floor. A plaque on the door identified it as Dr. Gerstein’s suite. The building was on the old and crumbly side, but inside the office was airy and modern, with white walls, framed prints by Frida Kahlo and Georgia O’Keefe, and flowering plants dotting the reception area. A poster of The Two Fridas caught my eye. On the left was the artist in a formal white European gown; on the right she was in a colorful Tehuana costume. The pair held hands and seemed to share a heart that had been cut out of the woman in the white dress, who was holding a pair of scissors and had blood on her skirt.

“Hello, Deirdre. I’m so glad you reached out.”

I turned and saw the willowy woman I’d met at Caroline’s funeral. Her braids were down, loosely gathered at the nape of her neck, but she looked just as elegant.

“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, Dr. Gerstein.”

“It’s Adinah. I’m only ‘Doctor’ to my patients.” She led me into her office and gestured at a plush armchair. “Please, sit down.”

Her office was small but cozy, with green plants on every available surface. She returned to her perch behind her desk, making me feel like the doctor was in.

I didn’t know how to start. “I feel like I’m going in circles,” I said. “I loved my sister, but we weren’t that close. And now that she’s gone . . .” I took a breath. “I feel like everyone has an agenda when they talk about her. I don’t know how to judge what they say, if it’s true.”

“How much does it matter?” she asked.

I considered that. “Caro wrote me a message to read after she died.” There was a hard lump in my throat.

“Delivered by Osiris’s Vault?” Adinah asked.

“How did you know?”

“My nephew works there.” She smiled, and I wondered if she was talking about Todd. “I’ve encouraged women to write notes identifying their abusers in case the worst were to happen. But it’s not all doom and gloom. Anyone who wants to keep their location completely private can use the service. Or people who want to get something off their chest without having a conversation about it.”

“This is what my sister wrote to me.” I pulled the message up for what felt like the millionth time and slid my phone across her desk. I didn’t want to look at it again.

Adinah read it quietly and slid the phone back.

“Reading that message led me down a rabbit hole,” I said. “What Caro says is clear. Her husband wanted to kill her. But the more I dig, the more I find people who . . . people who had their own motives to hurt her. How long did you know her?”

“I met Caroline when she was a student at SUNY. She talked to me for an assignment and ended up wanting to get involved. Diotima’s always been run in a decentralized way, so she was able to answer hotline calls from New Paltz.”

“Did Caro ever tell you that our father beat our mother?”

“No.” Adinah shook her head sadly. “She told me your mother used to hit her.”

I was so upset I couldn’t answer. “That’s not . . . ” That’s not true, I wanted to say, even though it wasn’t exactly a lie. You get away with everything because you’re the baby was Caro’s refrain when we were kids. I had dim memories of my mother slapping me, but they were buried deep. You’re lucky. She used to hit me with a hairbrush, Caro had told me more than once.

“Violence is often part of our family histories,” Adinah said. “It’s especially painful to talk about, because you feel shame. You have a sense of being disloyal, even though you’re not.”

She pushed a box of tissues toward me, and I dried my eyes and blew my nose.

“I don’t even really know what Diotima does,” I said, desperate to turn the thread of our conversation away from myself.

“Have you ever heard of Diotima of Mantinea?” Adinah asked. “She’s an important character in Plato’s Symposium. Her ideas were the basis for the ideal of platonic love. She was a real person, though historians disagree about who she was in real life. I was fascinated by her, and so I borrowed her name.” She steepled her hands. “The Diotima Civic Society is dedicated to educating women and men about domestic abuse. We help people get out of abusive situations. You probably know this already, but a great many people who leave an abusive partner in New York end up homeless. They have to navigate the city’s shelter system, which is inadequate and even dangerous. Imagine taking your children and leaving your abuser and ending up in that situation. We help people—mostly women, but some men as well—into safe housing.”

“Sure.” I nodded, glad that she was filling up the air while I recovered.

“A lot of institutions help abusers, not victims. For example, when kids are involved, an abuser has custody rights. The abuser knows where their victim lives. The law pretty much lays out a map for the abuser. Diotima provides assistance that government-funded groups can’t.”

“Like what?” I asked, throwing the wad of tissue in a bin next to the desk. I’d asked about Diotima because I needed to get my head together, but now I was genuinely curious.

“Have you ever heard the name Deisy Garcia?” Adinah asked.

“No.”

“Her case happened a few years back. Deisy went to the police for help with her abusive ex. Only, her report was taken in Spanish and never translated. She made three reports in all, and the police did nothing. Then, one night, her ex came over and stabbed Deisy and their two young daughters to death.”