Chapter 8 Saturday, May 7

Shirley Moore sat bored in her dreary home.It has been more than a month since she came back from Pittsburgh, and she has never stepped out of the house.She still has nightmares, but not as much as she used to, and it's not as traumatic.Soon spring will bring warm sunshine. Winter, she argues, can be tough, even at the best of times.This was the conclusion she had come to since she was a little girl.She once joked with a friend that it was because she couldn't see things, but in fact, for Shirley, this was not a joke, but a cold fact.But the most obvious and ineffable difference between her and the other blind people was that she never cared that she was blind.Likewise, she doesn't care that the unforeseen dangers to her body that she's been collecting images from the dead are doing to her body.

She could have chosen to live wherever she liked, an ideal place where the climatic conditions were more suited to her liking.But leaving Philadelphia meant leaving the only place where she considered a writer. An old Belgian clock above the fireplace ticked away.Next to it hang some silk butterflies.There are also silk butterflies hanging on the bedside table in her bedroom, in her study, and in her sunroom.For a time she kept touching them, holding them, being in them.Every chance she got, she let Brigham or Payne take her shopping.She still thinks about them now, but not as obsessively as she once did.

She yawned and her stomach started growling.She tugged at her earlobes vigorously, thinking that it was time to eat something, then drink a cup of tea, and sleep on the sofa for a while.Blind or not, sleeping during the day will feel safer.During the day is when she can really rest well.Thankfully, the days are getting longer every day. Outside the window, a sugar maple branch rustled against the windowpane.Listening to these noises, she tossed and turned, unable to fall asleep, and recalled when she was a child, when the same branch scratched the glass. "Chocolate Bean" jumped onto her lap, nestled his face gently against her chest, and was startled by the creaking sound of the screen being blown by the wind.

Shirley's house is located on the waterfront in Brooklawn, Delaware.Its front jutted out, and estate agents called it Baroque, but Payne called it Gothic and named her house Moorish Castle.He also said the house was big, dark and eerie. Shirley knew that the house was not an ideal place for a blind person.This house has too many stairs compared to most houses.But when she bought it, she didn't think too much about the design.She mainly likes its spacious sunroom and lawn near the water.And the traffic here is also very convenient, very close to the city center and the countryside. The wind outside roared and blew stronger, and the wind that got in through the gap in the window blew away a few pages of Braille books on the table.Dust swirled in the open hearth and was sucked up the three-story chimney.The house groans.She put the cat on the ground, stood up and walked towards the kitchen, annoyed when she bumped her arm against the door frame.

White lace curtains brushed over the stainless-steel sink, and cold air entered the room through cracks in the windows.She took a burnt black teapot, filled it with water and put it on the gas stove, turned on the gas valve, and then sat heavily on a chair. God, when will this lonely day end? Brigham could come over and be with her anytime.But dear Brigham couldn't take away all her loneliness. She had dreamed of Capovich last night, the officer she had met in Pittsburgh.The trip to Pittsburgh was her only forced excursion, partly of course at the kindness of John Payne, who kept urging her to get out of the house and go for a walk.She accepted the case, mostly because it was absolutely safe for her personally and would not be life-threatening.And it doesn't matter if you can help solve the mystery that has been hidden for thirty years.Still, most of the cases she takes are safe.She has traveled to archaeological sites in many places with historians and treasure hunters.She has been to Oaxaca City in Mexico, Volner Ridge, Arkansas, Connecticut...wherever she went, she brought fond memories that she would never be able to erase.

In her dream, Capovich stood in a field, looking sadly at an excavator hoisting a water tank from the ground.The sink was so heavy that the chains of the excavator creaked.There were still many onlookers standing beside them, watching a tattered suitcase dug up from the bucket, and dumping it together with the garbage dug up by the side of the pit. She looked down and saw a body bag in the pit.A sticker attached to it said "Pittsburgh Hospital."Through the slit in the body bag, she saw a woman's face, a beautiful face with chestnut hair. It was another sad dream, like her dream of the woman's face flashing in the window pane of the car.The dream, of course, had been caused by a letter from Officer Capucci that Brigham had read to her the night before.Capovich also sent an aerial photo.It was a Polaroid print of Oak Park, a long, big Cadillac, and a herd of sheep in the field behind the house."Oak Park, 1969" was scrawled on the back of the photo.Capovich may have found the photo in that house.His carefulness made her very happy.

Brigham was a retired admiral who lived as a widower in the big ivy-covered house next door.He teaches political science at the university, and his classes are in the afternoons, and he likes to hang out a little longer after class.Then every evening when he came home, he would stop by to see Shirley, to read her mail, have a cup of tea or tell stories about his past heroics. Shirley's personal emails are simple; she has an accountant who handles her finances.So most of the letters are junk mail, which she and Brigham generally just throw away.After afternoon tea, she received a very formal letter from the mailbox she used to receive public mail.In the early years, when she was not very famous, she usually read all the emails within a week, and answered almost every email.Now, there is so much mail that most of it is unopened and just shoved into the basement.Thousands of letters, too many to count.

Shirley knew the letters were usually death-themed, and she had to do some sifting because there were so many people asking for help.It made her feel guilty.She has used her special abilities to help many people over the years, but in a world full of pain, these help seem like a small part. Brigham arrived exactly at nine o'clock.There were letters from universities inviting her to give lectures.There was a letter from the Mexican authorities about the serial murders at the Guadalupe Cathedral.A teacher sent a letter from the Blue Ridge, Virginia, wanting to know the cause of the death of one of her fourth graders.A Gisborne, Alabama woman sent a pair of silk panties and wanted to know the name of her husband's mistress.A few hairs were also sent by a man who wanted to find his missing twin children.Another leukemia patient sent a dried blood sample asking for help in finding a suitable blood donor.Most people didn't know what she was doing, they just had a glimmer of hope to find someone who could help them.

There are also some courtship letters, and there are always people sending courtship letters, some are beautifully written, and some are dirty.She even got a letter a few years ago asking her to model topless for a men's magazine. After sorting all the letters, she asked Brigham to read her the letter from the fourth-grade teacher. In the letter, the teacher said her student, nine-year-old Joshua Bates, died after falling off a cliff in the Blue Ridge Mountains near Lulleau.The local newspaper said in the news that the child followed his father up the mountain to log and got lost while playing in the woods.Rescuers found him the next day at a pass in the Hughes River.Obviously, he accidentally walked to the edge of the cliff in the dark, disappeared and fell to his death.

Enclosed in the envelope was a photo of the child, taken in the school auditorium, with big brown eyes.Many people don't know that Shirley is blind, so I sent her some photos with this letter. "Can you pass me the picture?" she said to Brigham, who likes to hold things in her hands. Brigham handed her the envelope and looked at the other documents enclosed. "Here's another clipping," he said. "Keep reading, please," she said, twiddling the photo with her thumb and forefinger at the same time. Brigham read silently for a few minutes, then began to read, "Several carloads of volunteers formed a search and rescue team from Staunton, and arrived in Luliu on Tuesday morning, locking the search area on the east side of the pass. After one o'clock Volunteers were evacuated and bodies were found on the river bed. Officials declined to comment, but according to a volunteer, the scene of the accident was horrific. An autopsy will be performed in Harrisonburg next weekend."

The letter was handwritten by the boy's teacher, a woman who identified herself as Greta Mitchell.She said in the letter that she had seen injuries on the boy's body and asked him why he was injured.She was sure the boy showed signs of being abused by his father.She reported the situation to the Virginia Children's Defense Association.I also repeatedly reported to the relevant departments of the state government that the child was in danger, but no one took care of it.Now that he's dead, they say he died by accident.It infuriated her that no one had done justice to the poor child.She had read Shirley's story and hoped she would help the police put the boy's killer in jail.At the end of the letter, she asked Shirley to contact the Page County Sheriff. "What do you think?" Brigham asked, looking up at Shirley. "Well, I guess if I wanted to do something right now, it would be the first thing to think about," she said. "It's certainly an interesting case, but I think the local police might not see it that way." Shirley was right.The police, especially in small towns, don't usually accept outsiders meddling in their jurisdiction.But she decided to go there anyway, as if she was flying out to relax. "Call me a ticket," she said to Brigham, "but maybe they're sold out." Shirley got up and went into the kitchen to make two decaf coffees for Brigham and herself.When she returned, Brigham told her she'd better pack her bags right away, "the plane leaves early."