* * *
The email to my boss came the second week of September.
Dr. Anand Mehta ran the conservation lab at the archives. He was a small, precise man who wore cardigans year-round and had once, in my presence, spent forty-five minutes in silent joy over a watermark. He called me into his office, closed the door, and turned his monitor toward me.
The email had been sent to the archives' general public inquiry address from an account named concernedidahotaxpayer. It said that a state employee named Eleanor Pruitt was "cultivating a controlled substance at her private residence in Kestrel Creek in open defiance of Idaho law." It asked whether the State of Idaho was "aware that its employees are engaged in drug activity" and whether "taxpayer resources" were being used to "process and distribute" it. It had been forwarded to Dr. Mehta by the front office with a note that said only, ?
"I googled it," Dr. Mehta said. "Hibiscus cannabinus." He said it with real relish, the way he said Latin names for bookworms. "It's kenaf. You gave me kenaf paper for my birthday. Is this the woman with the hydrangeas?"
I had told him a little about Darlene, mostly as comedy. It had stopped feeling like comedy.
"Yes."
"Remarkable." He turned the monitor back. "I'm sorry to say that HR is obligated to make a note of it. A note only. It isn't a finding of anything. I've told them it's absurd, and I've attached a photograph of your plant from the Kew database." He folded his hands. "But Nell. Someone who writes to your employer is someone who wants to take things from you. I would be careful."
I went back to my bench and spent the rest of the afternoon mending a tear in a Civil War pension file, and my hands shook a little the whole time. It wasn't fear exactly. It was the feeling of standing on a dock and watching the water rise one board at a time.
That night I called the number Marisol had given me back in August, for a lawyer named Bev Strand. It went to voicemail. I left a message that I suspect was too long. Then I went out into the backyard in the dark, under the red light of Darlene's camera, and stood among my kenaf. The flowers had closed for the night. The stalks were cool and creaked faintly when the wind moved them. I thought, Two more weeks. Three at most. Then I'll cut you down and this will all be over.
That was on a Thursday. Nine days later, Officer Kowalczyk knocked on my door.
* * *