Chapter 2: The Envelope Beneath the Workbench
Diane followed me into the garage before I had even finished speaking to Daniel.
"Give me the phone," she said.
I turned my back to her.
"Daniel, I'll call you back.""
"No," he replied sharply.
"Emily, don't hang up. I need you to—"
Diane reached for my wrist.
I jerked away.
"Don't touch me.""
Her face flushed.
"You're making a scene over a rusty old car.""
"You sold something that wasn't yours to sell.""
"The title wasn't in your name!""
"You keep saying that as if it gives you the right to steal from me.""
Her lips pressed together.
For a moment, I expected her to slap me. Instead, she pointed toward the driveway.
"Get out of my house.""
I looked around the garage.
The shelves were crowded with paint cans, old tools, cardboard boxes, and plastic containers labeled in Mom's handwriting. A workbench stood against the back wall, its surface cluttered with screws and dried paintbrushes.
Everything smelled of dust, damp concrete, and the faint gasoline scent the Mustang had left behind.
"Fine," I said.
"But I'm not leaving without my mother's things.""
Diane folded her arms.
"Take whatever junk you want.""
I went to the workbench.
Daniel was still on the phone.
"Emily, can you hear me?""
"Yes.""
"Your mother gave me instructions about a particular document. I don't know whether it's still there, but she was very specific. If the car was sold, you were to look for an envelope.""
"Where?""
"She didn't tell me exactly. She said it was hidden somewhere she could reach without moving the car.""
I stared at the workbench.
A small memory surfaced.
Mom, six months before her death, sitting in the folding chair beside the Mustang, sorting screws into an old metal tin.
I'd been on the phone with work, complaining about a deadline.
She'd laughed at me and said, "You spend so much time looking at what's right in front of you, sweetheart. Sometimes the important things are underneath.""
At the time, I'd assumed she meant the tools.
Now, I knelt beside the workbench.
"What are you doing?"" Diane demanded.
"Looking for something.""
"For what?""
I didn't answer.
The workbench had a shallow drawer that always stuck. I pulled it open, revealing a tangled mess of electrical wire, two dead flashlights, a rusted wrench, and a stack of faded instruction manuals.
Nothing else.
I shut it and crouched to examine the underside.
A narrow strip of wood ran beneath the tabletop. At first glance, it looked like part of the frame, but one edge was lighter than the rest, as though it had been moved recently.
I ran my fingers along it.
Something caught beneath my thumbnail.
A tiny metal latch.
My heart began to pound.
"Emily," Daniel said through the phone, "what have you found?""
"I don't know yet.""
I pressed the latch.
A slim wooden panel dropped open, revealing a shallow compartment barely large enough to hold a book.
Inside lay a yellowed envelope.
My mother's handwriting crossed the front in dark blue ink.
*For Emily. Only if the Mustang leaves the garage.*
I stopped breathing.
Behind me, Diane whispered, "What is that?""
I turned.
Her face had gone pale.
Not confused.
Not curious.
Pale.
I held the envelope against my chest.
"Why are you looking at me like that?""
"I'm not.""
"You know what this is.""
"Emily, give it to me.""
"No.""
She took a step forward.
"Your mother was sick. She wrote all sorts of things near the end. You don't know what you're dealing with.""
The words sounded rehearsed.
My grip tightened.
"Then you won't mind if I open it.""
"Don't be ridiculous.""
She reached for the envelope.
I stepped back so quickly that my shoulder struck the shelf.
"Touch me again, and I'll call the police.""
Diane stopped.
Her gaze dropped to the envelope.
For the first time, I noticed that she wasn't looking at me.
She was looking at the writing.
Her jaw moved as if she were silently reading the words.
Then she said something that chilled me more than any threat could have.
"Your mother should have destroyed that.""
The garage seemed to tilt.
I stared at her.
"How do you know what it is?""
Diane blinked, and her expression shifted into something smoother.
"I meant the envelope. Obviously. If it contains personal information, she should have destroyed it instead of leaving it lying around.""
"It wasn't lying around. It was hidden.""
She glanced toward the open compartment.
"Whatever. Give it here.""
I took the envelope into the kitchen and placed it on the table.
Diane followed, keeping her distance now.
Daniel instructed me to photograph everything before opening it. I took pictures of the front, the back, and the small flap sealed with clear tape.
Then I slid a butter knife beneath the edge.
Inside were three items.
A sales receipt.
A photocopy of a vehicle transfer document.
And a folded sheet of paper that smelled faintly of the lavender hand lotion Mom used to keep beside her bed.
The receipt was dated the previous afternoon.
The buyer had paid $3,000 in cash for a 1967 Ford Mustang.
The seller's name was listed as Diane Carter.
Beneath it was a signature.
*Emily Rebecca Carter.*
My full legal name.
My blood turned cold.
"I never signed this.""
Daniel was silent for a moment.
Then he said, "Take a photograph of the signature. Don't write on the document, and don't let Diane take it.""
I lifted the second sheet.
It was a vehicle transfer authorization, supposedly signed by me three weeks earlier.
The signature looked convincing at first glance. The capital E had the right shape. The final stroke of Carter curled beneath the name.
But I'd spent years signing my name on contracts, timesheets, and birthday cards.
I knew how my hand moved.
This signature was too deliberate. Whoever had written it had copied the shape without understanding the rhythm.
It was a forgery.
I looked up.
Diane was standing beside the refrigerator, holding her mug with both hands.
"Did you sign this?"" I asked.
She stared at the paper.
"I don't know what you're talking about.""
"Someone signed my name to authorize the sale.""
"Maybe you signed it and forgot.""
"I didn't.""
"You were overwhelmed after your mother's death. You signed dozens of documents.""
"Not this one.""
Diane set the mug down.
"Emily, you need to calm down.""
I laughed bitterly.
"That's your answer to everything, isn't it? I'm upset, I'm grieving, I'm confused. If you say it often enough, maybe everyone will believe I'm incapable of knowing what's mine.""
Her expression sharpened.
"Don't twist my words.""
"Then explain the forged signature.""
She stepped toward me.
"You're making accusations you can't prove.""
I slid the documents into my bag.
"That's what lawyers are for.""
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then Diane leaned closer.
"You have no idea how much trouble you're inviting into this family.""
I met her eyes.
"You sold my mother's car. You forged my signature. I think the trouble started before I got here.""
I unfolded the last sheet of paper.
The handwriting was unmistakably Mom's.
The letters leaned slightly to the right. The capital R in Rebecca always looked like a small bird taking flight. The final stroke of her lowercase y extended farther than it needed to.
I'd watched her write grocery lists and birthday cards for twenty-seven years.
I pressed the paper flat with trembling fingers.
My darling Emily,
If you're reading this, then the Mustang has left the garage, and someone has ignored the one instruction I made absolutely clear.
I am sorry.
I wanted to tell you everything while I was alive. I tried several times, but every time I looked at you, I saw how much pain you were already carrying. I told myself there would be another day.
There wasn't.
My eyes blurred.
I sat down.
Diane moved toward the sink, pretending to rinse her mug.
I continued reading.
The car was never just a car. Your father knew that. I knew that. And there is a reason I left it to you instead of leaving it to the estate.
Do not let anyone convince you that the unfinished title transfer means the car was theirs to sell.
Inside the glove compartment, beneath the false lining, there is a key.
That key opens a safety deposit box at Pacific Crown Bank. The box is in my name, but the contents belong to you.
Before you open it, speak to Daniel Lawson.
And Emily, please remember this: the person who is most eager to tell you that you are imagining things may be the person who needs you to doubt yourself.
I lowered the letter.
For a long time, I couldn't hear anything except the refrigerator humming.
Then I looked at Diane.
She had gone completely still.
"What's in the box?"" I asked.
She didn't answer.
"What did Mom leave me?""
Diane's hand tightened around the edge of the sink.
"I have no idea.""
I looked down at the letter again.
There was one final paragraph beneath the signature.
If the car has already been sold, do not chase the buyer blindly. Ask Daniel to identify him. The buyer may be the only person who understands why the Mustang matters.
Beneath the paragraph, Mom had added a sentence in smaller handwriting.
And if Diane was the one who sold it, Emily, do not believe anything she tells you about your father.
I read the sentence twice.
Then a third time.
My father had been dead for eight years before Mom died.
Diane had been his wife.
What could my mother possibly have known about either of them that she had never told me?
I turned the letter around, searching for more.
Nothing.
"Diane," I said quietly.
"What did my mother mean about Dad?""
She turned off the faucet.
"Your mother was on strong medication near the end.""
"That's not an answer.""
"She was frightened. She wasn't always thinking clearly.""
"She wrote this in her own handwriting.""
"That doesn't mean it makes sense.""
I stood.
"Then you won't mind if I ask Daniel.""
Diane's face tightened.
"Emily, please. You're exhausted. You haven't eaten. Why don't you put those papers away, and we'll talk about this when you've had time to think?""
I stared at her.
She was using the same gentle voice she'd used at Mom's funeral, the same one she'd used when she explained why the armchair had disappeared.
For years, I'd mistaken that voice for kindness.
Now I heard the warning underneath it.
My phone vibrated.
Daniel had sent a message.
I need you to bring the envelope and every document to my office immediately. Do not discuss the letter with Diane.
A second message appeared before I could respond.
I have identified the buyer. Emily, you need to sit down before I tell you who he is.
I looked at the screen.
Then I looked at Diane.
She was watching my phone.
"Who bought the car?"" she asked.
For the first time, her voice trembled.
And that was when I realized something far worse than the forged signature.
May you like
Diane wasn't afraid that I would discover what my mother had hidden.
She was afraid that I would discover who had come looking for it.
