"Well, I'll be," he says. "Look at you, all grown up."
I manage a small smile. "It's been a long time."
He nods, his expression turning gentle. "Too long. But I can't blame you for not wanting to come back to this place."
"That was a dark time in my life," I admit. "But it's over now."
"I’ve been thinking a lot about you lately," he says, glancing down and kicking some dust with his foot.
"You have?" I ask. "Why's that?"
He doesn't respond right away, almost like he's weighing how much he should say. "There was an investigator here not too long ago," he says, glancing around to make sure no one can hear us.
"Dawson," I say. "I hired him to find my little sister."
"And?" he asks, his gaze hopeful.
“We found her,” I say, unable to hide my smile.
“That’s great, Dani,” he says, then glances around again. “But… Ms. Fletcher’s husband was also here asking about you.”
I chuckle. “I never met her husband,” I say. “You must be mistaken.”
“No, ma’am,” he says. “I had lunch with him a few days ago.”
“Why would Mr. Fletcher be asking about me?”
“No, his name’s not Fletcher,” he says. “His name is Callahan. I forget his first name, but he goes by Cal.”
If I wasn’t already sitting, I’m sure I would’ve felt the earth crumble under me.
Chapter 14
Cal
Convincing Cedric to hand over the box wasn’t easy. I had to promise I’d empty it, then return it sealed and just as heavy—its original contents swapped with blank paper so no one would suspect a thing. I also swore I’d give Elle everything inside. Since Meghan was promoted to Director last year, she’s at the office less often, which gave Cedric and me the perfect window to grab the box without anyone noticing.
I peel the packing tape back, slower than I need to. The cardboard gives with a reluctant sigh, like it knows what’s inside and wishes it could keep it hidden a little longer.
The first thing I see is a stack of construction paper—Izzy’s drawings, bright and chaotic, names and hearts scrawled in crayon. Beneath that: photos. Letters. Updates in my mom’s handwriting. All of it perfectlyintact.
Not a single fold. Not a smudge. No evidence that any of it was ever taped or tacked to a wall or handled by anyone but me.
She never saw any of it.
Every time I handed something to Meghan—every time she smiled, nodded, told me Dani “needed space”—this is where it ended up. Sealed in a box. Buried in the attic like an afterthought.
My fingers trace the edge of a photo. Izzy, toothless and beaming, holds a glittery butterfly sticker in one hand and a five-dollar bill in the other. Her gift from the tooth fairy.
Dani wasn’t healing with reminders of Izzy. She was surviving without them.
And I let it happen.
After carefully filling the keepsake box I made for Elle with all the photos and the letter I wrote her all those years ago, I place the drawings and Mom's notes in a gift bag. Then I fill the original box with printer paper from my desk.
“This should do it,” I say aloud as I reseal the box.
The doorbell’s persistent ring annoys me at first—but then sets me on high alert.
