“And the third?”
Neither man spoke.
I already knew I wasn’t going to like the answer.
“Douglas’s,” Lucas said.
The room seemed to tilt again.
“My mother had a box with his name on it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“That’s what we’ve been trying to understand.”
Douglas squeezed my fingers.
“The owners contacted the estate attorney listed in the sale documents. He found you first.”
I blinked.
“No one contacted me.”
“I know.”
Lucas’s voice lowered.
“The number they had for you was disconnected. The attorney sent a letter to your old apartment in Chicago. It came back.”
That made sense.
I’d left Chicago three years earlier and returned to the little town where I’d grown up.
Returned, strangely enough, to the very house I’d once been so determined to escape.
Not my mother’s house.
A smaller place six streets away.
Close enough to drive past the old football field sometimes.
