Brenda returned briefly a little after nine to collect papers she said she had forgotten. Evelyn had heard the car and slipped a small tape recorder into her cardigan pocket, a device Walt had used in later years to dictate memories and messages for friends. The battery still worked, though she had to press the buttons with both thumbs. Brenda noticed a statement beside the telephone and demanded to know why Evelyn was still looking at the accounts.
"I told you to stop asking about the money," Brenda said sharply. "If you mention it again, I will make sure you regret it."
Evelyn wanted to defend herself, but she remembered the small red recording light hidden against her sweater. She apologized and lowered her eyes, giving Brenda the response she expected. When the car left for the second time, Evelyn stopped the recorder and listened just long enough to confirm that the words had been captured. The sound of Brenda's voice coming from Walt's old machine made the room feel different, as though a wall she had thought solid had revealed its first crack.
Evelyn did not suddenly feel fearless. Her heart was fluttering, her legs were weak, and the distance to the front door seemed enormous. She collected the statements, the medication envelope, her address book, and the recorder, then wrapped them in a grocery bag she could carry without attracting attention. She also brought a small photograph of Walt because she could not imagine entering an unfamiliar place without something of him in her hand.
At 2:15, after hours of trying and failing to persuade herself to move, she left a note in the house explaining that Brenda had been threatening her. She wrote it carefully, despite the trembling of her fingers, and placed a copy where someone checking the home would see it. Then she opened the front door. Warm afternoon light fell across the porch, and the simple act of stepping outside felt so unfamiliar that she had to hold the railing until her breathing steadied.
Joe's Diner was only two blocks away. Evelyn knew the route from the years when she and Walt used to stop for breakfast after his appointments at the veterans' clinic. She remembered seeing motorcycles outside earlier in the week and a story Walt had once told about riders who helped an old veteran when bureaucracy had turned him away. She did not know whether the men would be there, only that Joe's door would probably be open and that someone inside might listen.
At Martha's house she almost stopped. She stood by the gate long enough to hear a dog barking somewhere behind the fence, then imagined Brenda being called to explain the situation. The fear was unreasonable in some respects and perfectly reasonable in others; she had already been told so many times that nobody would believe her. She gripped the grocery bag and forced herself to continue.