My mother’s cedar chest was gone.
For a second I simply stared at the empty floor, unable to understand what I was seeing. The cedar chest had sat at the back of that closet for as long as I could remember. It was where my mother kept winter blankets, old photographs, a box of letters tied with ribbon, a pair of my grandmother’s gloves, a baby dress of mine with one loose pearl button, and a stack of papers she once told me mattered less than the stories attached to them, which of course meant they mattered very much.
It was gone.
I turned so fast I nearly knocked over the nightstand.
“Evelyn.”
She appeared in the doorway almost immediately, taking in my face before her eyes followed mine to the empty closet floor.
“What was there?” she asked.
“A cedar chest. My mother’s. It was here the last time I stayed over.”
“When was that?”
“November.”
Diana’s voice floated up from the hall before I even saw her. “If you’re about to accuse me of stealing some old blanket box, don’t embarrass yourself.”
I stepped into the doorway. “Where is it?”
She looked me over, cool again now that shock had begun hardening into offense. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“The cedar chest in that closet.”
Madeline, at the far end of the hall, glanced away too quickly.
I saw it.
I saw it in the exact flicker of her face: guilt first, then annoyance at having displayed it.
I turned to her. “Madeline.”
“What?”
“You know where it is.”
Her arms folded tighter. “I don’t.”
“You just looked at the floor.”
“That means nothing.”
“It means you know.”
Diana stepped between us. “Stop interrogating my daughter.”
The older officer, who had come up the stairs at some point I hadn’t noticed, said, “If property belonging to the homeowner has been removed, that’s relevant.”
Diana laughed sharply. “A sentimental storage chest is not a criminal emergency.”
“No,” Evelyn said, appearing beside me like judgment in a wool coat, “but concealment or disposal of a beneficiary’s personal property after being put on notice of ownership may create several kinds of legal trouble, some of which I suspect will sound very ugly when spoken slowly in court.”
Madeline’s bravado wavered.
I took one step toward her. “Where is it?”
Her chin lifted. “In the garage.”
Diana snapped around. “Madeline.”
“What?” she burst out, voice cracking. “You said she wasn’t coming back. You said none of this mattered because Dad was going to sell the place anyway.”
The hall went still.
Even Diana seemed to realize, a half second too late, what had just been said out loud and in front of people who wrote reports.
Evelyn’s eyes sharpened. “Sell the place?”
Madeline swallowed. “I didn’t mean—”
“You did,” I said softly.
