Inside, the house looked worse than I expected.
Cups covered the counters.
Someone had left food uncovered on the dining table.
Blankets lay across the living-room floor.
A child’s inflatable pool toy blocked part of the hallway.
My reading chair beside the fireplace had a man’s damp jacket thrown over the back.
I said nothing.
I walked into the downstairs bathroom and retrieved the medication I kept in the cabinet.
Then I went upstairs.
There was something else I needed.
Six weeks earlier, I had placed a large cream envelope inside the nightstand in the main bedroom.
It contained copies of the property deed, insurance information, several estate papers, and a letter my father had written me twenty-five years earlier.
The legal documents could be replaced.
The letter could not.
My father had written it when David and I bought the lake house.
Clara,
A place does not become valuable because of what you pay for it. It becomes valuable because of what you are willing to maintain.
Take care of the place, and make sure the people who use it understand that care is part of the privilege.
Love,
Dad
I had read the letter a hundred times after David died.
I opened my bedroom door.
My suitcase stand had been moved.
My books were pushed into one corner of the dresser.
Personal items had been gathered into a careless pile.
The quilt my sister made me had been folded badly and shoved onto a chair.
I went to the nightstand.
Opened the drawer.
Empty.
I checked the second drawer.
Nothing.
I looked under the bed.
Inside the closet.
Behind the nightstand.
Nothing.
The envelope was gone.
I stood in the middle of the room.
All the embarrassment from the day before vanished.
A colder feeling took its place.
Someone had opened my drawer.
Someone had gone through my belongings.
Someone had taken the envelope.
I photographed the empty drawer.
The dresser.
The disturbed items.
The closet.
Then my eyes moved toward the small cedar box near the mirror.
David’s box.
He had kept loose change, cuff links, and his watch inside it whenever we were at the lake.
After he died, I placed the watch there because I liked seeing it when I opened the lid.
A plain stainless-steel watch.
Not expensive.
The band was scratched near the clasp.
David had worn it for almost thirty years.
I opened the box.
Empty.
For several seconds, I did not move.
Melanie called from downstairs.
“Everything okay?”
I closed the lid.
“No.”
She appeared halfway up the staircase.
“What happened?”
“Some things are missing.”
Her face changed.
“What things?”
“Documents. My husband’s watch.”
“I didn’t touch anything.”
“I didn’t say you did.”
She looked genuinely frightened.
I believed her.
That did not solve the problem.
I thanked her for letting me in and walked outside.
Then I went straight to Gideon.
He listened from his kitchen while I described the envelope and the watch.
When I finished, he disappeared into another room and returned with a business card.
“Wren Calloway. Property attorney.”
I took it.
“You know her?”
“My brother-in-law’s daughter.”
“Is she good?”
“She terrifies people who misuse commas in contracts.”
“That sounds promising.”
Wren’s office was above a pharmacy downtown.
She was younger than I expected, late thirties perhaps, with reading glasses resting on top of her head and a desk covered in neatly labeled files.
I showed her my photographs.
She listened.
When I finished, she tapped the image of the empty drawer.
“The deed copy being gone doesn’t change ownership.”
“I know.”
“The recorded deed is with the county.”
“Yes.”
“But taking documents from your private drawer without permission is still significant.”
“And the watch?”
“Document that too.”
She leaned back.
“Clara, has your son ever had permission to use the house without checking with you?”
“Sometimes.”
“How?”
“He asks.”
“Always?”
I thought.
“Not lately.”