“I recognize my name,” I said. “I did not sign that document.”
“Do you have any medical conditions that affect your memory?”
“My doctor says I have an excellent memory.”
Sandra gave a small, bitter laugh.
“Her doctor is not a neurologist.”
“My doctor has been treating me for seventeen years.”
The officer turned to Tommy. “Did your mother sign this?”
Tommy looked at the document.
“No.”
Sandra’s head snapped toward him.
“Tommy.”
He flinched, but he kept speaking.
“She didn’t sign it.”
“Did you know about the declaration stating she had died?”
His silence lasted too long.
The officer looked up.
“I knew she was alive,” Tommy said.
“That wasn’t the question.”
Tommy pressed his palms against his thighs. “I knew Sandra had papers. I didn’t know exactly what they said.”
“Did you help move the property?”
“Yes.”
“Did you force the door?”
“Yes.”
Sandra stepped forward. “He was acting under my legal authority.”
The officer looked at the paper in his hand. “This authority appears to be based on a signature your mother disputes.”
Sandra’s mouth tightened.
The second officer entered the house to inspect the lock. I followed him.
The living room looked as though someone had searched it and then tried to make the search appear orderly. Empty spaces marked where furniture had been. James’s books were gone from the shelves. A row of framed photographs had been removed, leaving pale rectangles on the wall.
My grandmother’s chest stood open near the hallway.
I stopped.
The brass latch hung broken.
Inside, the blankets and embroidered linens had been thrown aside. The old cedar smell had been replaced by the sharp scent of dust.
I knelt beside it.
There had been a false bottom in that chest, though only James and I had known. He built it himself after my grandmother died, saying that every family needed one place where important things could sleep without being disturbed.
I lifted the lining.
The compartment was empty.
My breath caught.
“What was in there?” the officer asked.
“Letters. Bank records. A small black notebook.”
“Anything valuable?”
“More valuable than jewelry.”
Behind me, Tommy whispered, “Mom.”
I turned.
He stood at the entrance, his face gray.
“What did you take?”
“Nothing from the chest.”
“Sandra did?”
“I don’t know.”
“You were here.”
“I was loading what she told me to load.”
“You helped break into my house.”
“I know.”
His voice cracked on the last word.
The officer asked him to wait outside.
I went to the kitchen. The table was gone, but the old wall clock remained. Its hands had stopped at 3:17.
James had repaired that clock every year on the same day he repaired the porch railing. I touched the pendulum housing and felt a slight ridge beneath the wood.
I opened it.
A tiny silver flash caught the light.
It was a memory card taped inside the casing.
My knees weakened.
