Chapter 3 - Rebecca’s Locked DrawerMichael was waiting in the kitchen when I came home.
The boys were upstairs. I could hear the faint rumble of Luke’s voice, Tommy telling him to be quiet, Kevin coughing through the tears he had tried to hide at bedtime.
Michael stood when I entered.
“What happened?”
I placed my purse on the island.
“Who is Rebecca?”
His face closed.
Not with guilt.
With grief.
That almost frightened me more.
“You know who Rebecca was.”
“No,” I said. “I know she was your first wife. I know she died when Kevin was a baby. I know the boys remember her in pieces. I know I never tried to replace her.”
Michael looked toward the stairs.
I lowered my voice.
“But I got a text tonight telling me to ask you about her.”
The blood drained from his face.
“From Patricia?”
“Blocked number.”
He pulled out a chair and sat.
For a moment, he looked older than forty-two.
“I should have told you years ago.”
Those words made my throat tighten.
Michael reached into his jacket pocket and took out his phone, but he did not unlock it. He only held it like a man trying to anchor himself.
“Rebecca didn’t just die.”
I waited.
“She was sick. Postpartum depression at first, or that’s what the doctors thought. Then paranoia. Then fear. She believed someone was watching the house. She said someone had been calling her, hanging up, leaving notes.”
My skin prickled.
“Was someone?”
“I thought no. I was wrong.”
Outside, rain tapped against the kitchen windows.
Michael continued. “After the accident, the police found no sign of foul play. She had driven off the road on a rainy night. She wasn’t wearing her seat belt. They said she lost control.”
“And you believed that?”
“I had three children under five. I believed whatever allowed me to wake up the next morning.”
He stood and walked to the study.
I followed.
The study smelled of cedar, paper, and Michael’s coffee. On the wall were framed architectural sketches and photographs of the boys at different ages. Rebecca appeared in only one picture, a candid shot of her laughing in the backyard while Tommy toddled beside her.
Michael unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk.
Inside was a sealed gray envelope.
He held it for a long moment before handing it to me.
“This came two weeks after her funeral.”
My name was not on the envelope.
Neither was his.
Only one word.
Sorry.
Inside was a photograph of Rebecca standing outside a pharmacy.
On the back, written in neat block letters:
She knew too much.
I looked up.
“What does this mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who sent it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why didn’t you tell the police?”
“I did.” His voice roughened. “They said grief attracts sick people. They said it could be a cruel prank.”
“And then?”
“Then I hired a private investigator.”
I stared at him.
“What did he find?”
Michael opened the drawer again and removed a thin file.
The name on the first page made my stomach drop.
Patricia Anne Caldwell.
“My sister?”
“She had contacted Rebecca.”
The room tilted.
“No.”
“Three times that we know of. Once by email. Twice by phone.”
I shook my head. “Patricia didn’t know Rebecca.”
“She knew of her.”
“Why would she contact your wife?”
Michael looked at me with eyes full of old regret.
“Because Rebecca was helping your mother change her will.”
I sat down slowly.
“My mother?”
“Rebecca volunteered at the hospital legal aid desk. She helped patients organize paperwork. Your mother came in worried about Patricia pressuring her. Rebecca referred her to an attorney.”
Memory opened like a trapdoor.
My mother in her final months, thin hands gripping mine.
Don’t let your sister make you feel guilty for surviving her.
I had thought she meant emotionally.
I had not known she meant legally.
“Patricia found out?” I whispered.
“Yes.”
“And Rebecca died?”
“Six weeks later.”
My hand went to my pearls.
The inheritance battle had destroyed the last of my relationship with Patricia. She had accused me of manipulating Mom. She had screamed in a lawyer’s office that I had stolen what belonged to her. She had disappeared after losing the case.
But Rebecca.
Rebecca had been a stranger to me then.
A kind woman with three babies.
A woman who had helped my mother.
A woman who might have paid for that kindness.
“Why did you marry me?” I asked.
Michael looked stunned. “What?”
“Did you know who I was when we met?”
He shook his head immediately. “No. Jenny, no. I met you two years later at the school fundraiser. I didn’t connect your last name until you told me about your mother. By then I already loved you.”
“You loved me and didn’t tell me my sister may have been involved in your wife’s death?”
“I had no proof. And I was terrified that telling you would put you in danger.”
“Danger from Patricia?”
“From whoever helped her.”
The room went silent.
That was worse.
Because Patricia was vain, cruel, manipulative.
But was she capable of arranging a death?
Ten years ago, I would have said no.
Tonight, after hearing her speak about three little boys as if they were furniture in the wrong room, I was not sure.
A floorboard creaked behind us.
We turned.
Tommy stood in the doorway in blue pajamas, his face pale.
“Was my mom murdered?” he asked.
My heart shattered.
Michael moved toward him. “Tommy—”
The boy stepped back.
“Was she?”
Neither of us spoke.
That was answer enough.
Tears filled his eyes, but he did not cry.
Tommy had learned too early how to hold himself together.
“Does Aunt Patricia want us to go away?” he asked me.
I crossed the room and knelt in front of him.
“She can want whatever she wants. She does not get to decide where you belong.”
“But if Dad has a new baby…”
I took his hands.
“Listen to me. A baby does not erase a child. A lie does not erase a family. And no one, no one, gets to erase you.”
His mouth trembled.
“You’re still our mom?”
I pulled him against me.
“I am your mom for every morning, every homework fight, every soccer practice, every fever, every nightmare, every birthday, every ordinary Tuesday for the rest of my life.”
His small arms locked around my neck.
Over his shoulder, I saw Michael close his eyes.
But I did not comfort him.
Not yet.
Because husbands could explain themselves later.
Children needed saving now.
May you like
And somewhere in Boston, my sister was smiling over a sonogram, believing she had already won.
She had no idea we had found Rebecca’s drawer.
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