Chapter 6 - The Blue Lunchbox —
Mom wanted to go back alone.
Andrea said no.
They arranged for an officer to meet her while she collected belongings. Lisa stayed at the hotel with us.
I drew the basement shelf on hotel stationery.
“Behind the Christmas lights,” I told Mom. “He put it there when the zipper broke.”
She studied my drawing like it was a map to buried money.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t know it mattered.”
She pulled me close.
“Of course you didn’t.”
They left at two.
At two nineteen, Lisa’s phone rang.
She listened without speaking.
Then she moved into the bathroom and shut the door.
That was when I knew.
I followed.
“What happened?”
“Emily—”
“What happened?”
She opened the door.
“The house was broken into.”
For a second, all I could hear was the bathroom fan.
“Mom?”
“She’s okay. She didn’t go inside until the officer got there.”
The living room drawers had been emptied. Mom’s mattress had been pulled off the bed. The kitchen drawer where she kept the settlement papers was hanging crooked.
Someone had searched.
Andrea had the papers.
But Dad’s lunchbox was gone.
I sat on the floor beside Noah’s travel crib.
He pulled himself up and grinned at me.
I couldn’t grin back.
When Mom returned, she carried two bags of clothes and Dad’s winter hat.
Nothing else.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
I hated that she was apologizing.
She hadn’t broken the window.
She hadn’t taken his things.
That evening, Andrea called with another development.
A former Northline dispatcher had contacted her after Lorenzo ordered company records preserved.
His name was Ben Alvarez.
He said Dad had complained about his truck’s brakes for weeks.
He also said the maintenance logs Andrea had requested didn’t match what he remembered.
“He’ll meet me tomorrow,” she told Mom. “In my office.”
“Will he tell the police?”
“That’s his decision. I’m encouraging it.”
Mom closed her eyes.
After the call, I picked up Dad’s hat.
Something stiff crackled inside the folded lining.
I frowned.
Dad used to tuck receipts in there when his hands were full.
I unfolded the wool.
A small photograph slipped out.
It showed Dad beside his truck.
May you like
On the back, in his handwriting, were four words and a number.
Ben has the original. 214.
