Chapter 5: The Woman Who Wasn't Gone
"Give me the phone," I said.
"Ellen—"
"Joe.
Give me the phone."
He picked it up with two fingers, the way you pick up something you're not sure is safe.
He turned the screen toward me.
The name read: *DIANE.*
The call had already ended.
One missed call.
No voicemail.
"You told me she d*ed," I said.
"She did." His voice had gone very flat.
"I was at the hospital.
I saw—" He stopped.
"I identified her.
I signed the paperwork."
"Then who is calling from her number?"
"I don't know."
"Is that her actual number?
From back then?"
"No.
That number hasn't existed in thirty years." He stared at the screen.
"Someone set up a contact in my phone with that name.
Someone who has access to my phone."
I stood up.
"When did you last have your phone with you the whole time?"
He thought.
"At the funeral home.
I set it down on the table in the reception hall when I went to—" He stopped.
"When you went to find Mom's coffin," I said.
He looked at me.
"Someone was in that room."
"Someone who knew you'd go there.
Someone who knew about Diane." I picked up the rusted container and looked at it again.
Three things.
A photograph.
A document.
A key.
"Joe, who else knew?
About Diane, about the money, about the agreement with my mother?"
"No one.
Margaret and I were the only—" He stopped again.
His eyes moved to something past my shoulder.
I turned around.
The back door of the house was open.
I had locked it when I arrived.
I was certain of it.
I had taken Mom's key from my purse, turned the deadbolt, heard it click.
The door stood open six inches.
The kitchen beyond it was dark.
"Stay here," Joe said.
"Absolutely not."
We went in together.
The kitchen was empty.
Nothing overturned, nothing broken.
But the drawer beside the stove — the one where Mom kept her important papers, her spare keys, her reading glasses — was pulled all the way out and left on the counter.
Empty.
"She kept things in there," I said.
"Letters.
Old documents.
A notebook she wrote in sometimes."
"What kind of notebook?"
"I don't know.
I never read it.
She always closed it when I came in the room." I looked at the empty drawer.
"Someone took it.
Tonight.
While we were sitting on the porch."
Joe moved to the window above the sink.
He looked out at the yard, at the maple, at the dark beyond the reach of the porch light.
"They were here while we were talking," he said.
"They heard everything."
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
A text.
Unknown number.
*You opened the box.
Now stop.
What's in the bank will hurt you more than it helps you.
Your mother knew that.
That's why she waited until she was gone to tell you.*
I showed Joe the screen.
He read it twice.
"Someone didn't want her to tell you," he said quietly.
"And now they're trying to stop you from finding out the rest."
I looked at the text.
Then I typed back one word.
*Who are you?*
Three dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
Then the number went dark.
Disconnected.
Joe put his hand on my arm.
"Ellen.
We should call someone."
"I already called the police," I said.
"Earlier tonight.
When I found the box."
"What did they say?"
"They said they'd send someone in the morning.
That there was no sign of a crjme." I looked at the empty drawer.
"I think I need to call them again."
Joe nodded slowly.
Then he said, "Before you do — there's one more thing I haven't told you."
I looked at him.
"The woman in the photograph," he said.
"Diane."
May you like
"What about her?"
"She had a sister."
