Chapter 2: The Envelope With My Name On It
I pressed myself against the bedroom wall and held my breath.
The footsteps were slow.
Deliberate.
Coming up the stairs.
Then a woman appeared in the doorway.
She was younger than me — maybe sixty.
Well-dressed.
And she was carrying a small box.
When she saw me, she stopped.
"Who are you?" she said.
"I'm a friend of Thomas's," I said.
"Who are you?"
She set the box down on the bed, right next to the open suitcase.
"I'm his daughter," she said.
"And you need to leave."
"Where is he?
Is he all right?"
She didn't answer.
She started placing things from the box into the suitcase.
Folded shirts.
A leather wallet.
A small framed photo — face down.
"Please," I said.
"I just need to know he's safe."
She turned and looked at me then.
Really looked at me.
"You're her," she said quietly.
"You're the one from the photograph."
My heart stopped.
"What photograph?"
She reached into the box and pulled out an envelope.
"He told me if you ever came here," she said, "I was supposed to give you this."
She held it out.
My name was written on the front in Thomas's handwriting.
But before I could take it, her phone rang.
She looked at the screen — and her face went white.
"That's the hospital," she whispered.
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What's in that envelope — and what happened to Thomas?
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