With raw fingers pushing on the back of my aching neck, I went to the kitchen for my routine. Nothing was unusual, nothing aside from my own imagination.
Then, on the counter, I saw it.
My chatelaine, keys intact.
I sighed with deep relief, my elbows hitting the cold counter as my fingers tangled in the fine chains, holding it firmly to remind me they were here and all was well.
With the chatelaine secured to my skirt, it was time once again to dig through the mountain of hand-me-downs my sister had so graciously given me. I couldn’t imagine how I would ever get the house clean. Perhaps today I would work on the boxes of smaller items.
I sat at the table, pulling a box forward. It wasn’t terribly heavy, and it seemed to be a file box, something with papers. I swore that if this were expired tax reports or other rubbish, I would be having a wordwith her about getting their own waste disposal instead of handing it off to me.
I slid the lid off the box, a bit of dust puffing from it when it finally released. The good news was that it may not have been garbage, after all.
I pulled out a stack from the top, photographs of our old home in France.Tournon-sur-Rhône,’87scrawled on the back corner. New York was a sight to behold but nothing compared to the south of France.
Stone houses lined the street, tall, rocky hills overgrown with grass just beyond the steeple of the square. It looked to be spring or summer; it was hard to tell from buildings and lighting alone.
Another of an orchard, taken from the top of a hill. A river could be seen just past the trees. This would be late June, as there was someone picking apricots.
Then another—people, this time.
There was a woman and a man who resembled softer versions of my parents. My father, absent of a stiff-starched collar and wrinkles in his eyes. My mother in lighter clothes and shoulders, her hair dared to be tucked out of place, effortless. Then there were my sisters, standing side by side.
I should have been there, but I wasn’t. The only other person was another grown woman, a bit younger than my mother. She looked to be the help, as she stood on the side of Mother, a hand on Félice’s shoulder as if to keep her still for the photograph.
I checked the back, only to see:The De Villier Household, ’79.
I should have been in this picture,I thought.I would have been two.
I tucked the photograph in my pocket, containing the rest in the box and closing it. Something about this mysterious box made me feel like Pandora. There were secrets in there that I wasn’t sure if I wanted or cared to know.
I needed more than just an afternoon to dig, and I had other investigations planned for the day.
I returned to the coroner’s office, a bottle of wine in hand. A man at the front desk spotted me, nodding as I passed. No one questions you when you walk with purpose and have something expensive in hand. I knew where to go this time, I remembered the way.
The edges of the stairs were clear, the concrete of the walls more detailed upon second passing. The office was where it was supposed to be, unlocked due to the absence of its owner. Down the stairs, third—no, fourth—door on the left, tucked just around the corner of the hallway where it split.
I took great care to look both ways, then again to make absolutely sure no one would bear witness. I turned the knob quietly, carefully. Not one creak from the door as I slipped inside, closing it delicately so as not to make any loud clicks as it settled back into the doorframe.
Now, I could get to work.
I fell to my knees in front of the drawer, digging around in my pocket. I produced the dull keys caked in remaining flakes of plaster. It was dark, the desk lamp wasn’t very bright, so it was a struggle to find the keyhole. I scraped it along the brass lock until it finally clanked into place.
It wouldn’t turn.
I flicked to the next one, shaking as the key clattered clumsily against the hole; this one was too large.
“Come now,” I cried quietly, squinting at the ring of keys as I moved to the next one, then the next.
The smallest key worked, sliding in easily, and took very little effort to turn.
The drawer was heavy, papers shifting and falling out from fullness. I gathered the small pieces of paper, catching a couple more as the drawer opened farther, until I could see some of the mess inside. There were folders, many. Varying in thickness, some photographs loose from the piles and haphazardly thrown in.
It was like they wanted to be found, practically leaped into my hands.
The first one was a woman, a robust figure, curved in every way, her neck and arms soft in feature with no detectable sharp angles.
The next was a group of women in nightgowns, a candid of sorts. Not completely staged but not completely genuine.
