there is another issue.”
I gripped the suitcase handle. “What issue?”
“Someone contacted our customer line this afternoon pretending to be you. The caller attempted to change your mailing address and security phone number. The call was recorded.”
The bus shelter seemed to tilt around me.
“Was it my sister?”
“I can’t identify the caller over the phone, but a review has been requested. Please preserve any messages you receive from your family. Do not delete anything.”
My phone vibrated against my ear.
A new message appeared from Renee.
Don’t be stupid. Come back and we’ll talk. You don’t want police involved. Think about Mom.
For years, that phrase had worked on me.
Think about Mom.
Think about peace.
Think about family.
Think about everyone except yourself.
“They just texted me,” I said.
“Do not respond except through counsel if possible,” Dana said. “Mr. Hensley is asking whether you still have the blue folder your grandmother gave you.”
My entire body went cold.
The blue folder.
Grandma had given it to me after one of her clear days, when she gripped my wrist and said, “When they smile too sweetly, baby, read page three.”
I had tucked it into the lining of my old nursing-school backpack because I thought she was frightened and confused.
But my backpack was not in the suitcase.
It was still in my bedroom closet.
Inside that house.
And when I looked up, I saw my mother stepping off the porch with my backpack in her hand.
The rain blurred her outline, but I knew the bag instantly. Navy canvas. Frayed strap. A small silver keychain shaped like a heart that my father had bought for me at a gas station during our last road trip.
My mother held it like evidence.
Renee followed behind her, barefoot on the wet porch steps, one hand pressed to her mouth. Victor stayed in the doorway.
“Elise!” my mother called.
I lowered the phone from my ear but did not hang up.
Dana’s voice was faint. “Ms. Monroe, do not approach them alone.”
My mother walked halfway down the block. She was not carrying an umbrella. Her hair stuck to her cheeks, and her cardigan darkened under the rain. For one fragile second, she looked like a mother coming after her daughter because she had realized what she had done.
Then she lifted the backpack.
“You forgot this,” she said.
I did not move.
“Set it down,” I called back.
Her expression hardened.
“Don’t be dramatic. Come get it.”
“Set it down and walk away.”
Renee appeared behind her. “Elise, please. You’re making this bigger than it has to be.”
There was panic under her voice now, thin and sharp.
“You spent my school money,” I said.
“I was going to pay it back.”
“With what?”
Renee’s mouth opened, then closed.
Victor shouted from the porch. “Don’t answer her.”
My mother flinched, and that flinch told me more than any confession could have. They were not united because they loved each other. They were united because fear had wrapped itself around the house.
A pair of headlights turned the corner. A small gray sedan slowed beside the bus shelter. For a moment, I thought it was a stranger, and my heart jumped with fresh alarm.
The driver’s window lowered.
