I took a job bathing a paralyzed billionaire because my children were starving and I had no other choice. I told myself it was only work, only a…
“Mommy, are we rich?”
I laughed and cried at the same time.
“No, baby.”
I kissed her forehead.
“We just got lucky.”
That night, after they slept, I sat at our tiny kitchen table and pulled an old cardboard box from the closet.
Ryan’s box.
I had carried it through six apartments and two marriages.
Inside were photographs.
Letters.
School papers.
A baseball glove.
And one picture that made my heart stop.
Ryan at twenty-one.
Standing beside me outside our grandmother’s house.
Around his neck was the same silver locket.
I turned the photo over.
Summer 2007.
Three years before his death.
My hands began to shake.
Ryan had disappeared in October 2010.
Police said his car had been found near Lake Michigan.
A body had washed ashore eleven days later.
Badly decomposed.
The police told us identification was made through dental records and personal effects.
There had been no viewing.
We cremated what we were told was Ryan’s body.
I had stood at a cemetery holding a small urn while a priest talked about eternal peace.
But what if it hadn’t been Ryan?
The thought was insane.
Impossible.
And yet the necklace existed.
I barely slept.
At seven the next morning, my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Rachel?”
Christopher Bennett.
I sat up.
“What do you want?”
A long silence.
“Come back.”
“Why?”
“Because you need the job.”
Anger flared through me.
“And you need someone willing to tolerate you.”
Another pause.
“That too.”
I looked toward Brandon sleeping on the couch.
“Will you tell me about Ryan?”
“No.”
I nearly hung up.
Then Christopher added, “Not yet.”
I gripped the phone.
“What does that mean?”
“It means there are things you do not understand.”
“Then help me understand.”
“I can’t.”
“You mean you won’t.”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
Five thousand dollars a week could change my children’s lives.
It could move us out of that apartment.
Pay medical bills.
Put food in the refrigerator.
