“The notebook, Mom! It’s gone!”
“I told you I found everything you—”
“I didn’t steal that! It’s mine, and I need it. I need it!” He scrambled to his feet, arms spread wide as if he might start flailing them like someone calling for help. He wasn’t crying, though. His eyes were dry and desperate, hot with panic. Lily wanted to cry out too. Wanted to wail and thrash and demand that it all stop.
Instead she pitched her voice to a soothing tone. “Okay, Everett, calm down. I’ll get the notebook and we’ll talk about it. All right? Just breathe.”
What the hell was this about? She spun to rush back to her office, pulling her keys from her pocket. She unlocked the bottom drawer, smashed all the files tightly toward the front, and fumbled behind them for the contraband she’d locked there. Once she had the notebook, she carried it back toward his room, but stopped halfway across the living room to open it.
She didn’t want to invade his privacy, but his panic had terrified her, the irrationality of it crawling beneath her skin like writhing bugs. Something was wrong with her son. Something more than she knew, and the endless possibilities of how she could fail him loomed over her like a giant wall of dark water.
But when she opened the book, the pages were blank. She flipped through, half expecting contraband to fall out, but nothing did. Then she caught a glimpse of light scratches in the middle, and flipped back. She didn’t believe it at first. She couldn’t.
“Mom?” Everett stuck his head out, and when he saw her with the book he jumped forward to grab it, but Lily had already seen enough. She stepped back and held the notebook up, hand trembling with fear.
“Everett, what is this?”
“It’s mine!”
“This is your father’s writing. Where did you get this?” She was yelling, she realized dimly, as if the sound had come from someone else. She spun in a slow circle, looking toward the patio doors, toward Everett’s room, toward the scuffed door to the office, as if Jones might step out from any one of them, a trickster ghost. “Is he here?”
“No! No, it’s mine. From before.”
“Before when?”
“Before he left. Before . . . everything. I . . .” He gazed up at the notebook as if he needed it so much he might grab it from her. Lily’s heart ached at the misery that twisted his precious face. “I found it in the backyard!”
“The backyard?” It all fell on her then, every little clue dropping like embers that burned through the tender, exposed spots of her soul. The phone calls. The prowler digging a hole. The notebook. Everett’s panic.
When he drew closer, she let him take the book from her limp fingers. He clutched it to his chest like a talisman, his despair wilting into relief.
“He called you,” Lily said dully.
Her son may have been lying to her about a hundred things, but he wasn’t good at it yet, or not quick, at least. His eyes flared with alarm even as he tried to stammer out a denial.
“Everett,” she said wearily. “Just tell me what he said. I know he was looking for something he hid; I just didn’t know what.”
He shook his head, but then he whispered, “How did you know?”
“The person who lives in our old house called the police about a prowler. That’s why that detective has been around. And . . .” She caught her breath and questioned herself for a moment, but she couldn’t do this anymore, she couldn’t wonder and fear every day for years. “Jones called here one night and asked if he could speak to you. I said no. I said you were too young.”
She was surprised when he didn’t look angry or even hurt. He just stared up at her, the rectangle of leather clutched tight to his heart. After a long moment, his chin dipped in a nod.
“He only wanted this,” he said softly. “I thought he wanted to talk to me, but he just wanted this. That’s why he called.”
Oh God, the soft grief in his voice struck her harder than any blow ever could. As angry as she was with Jones, she couldn’t let Everett think that. “That’s not the only reason, Everett. I know it’s not.”
“Mom, it’s okay.”
“No. He’s called before. He even . . .” She had to pause to choke back tears. “He started sending cards a few years ago.”
“He did?”
“Yes, but after that first one, when you turned seven . . . You were devastated when you didn’t get a Christmas card that year. And then no birthday card the next year. After a couple of years passed, I decided it wasn’t fair to . . .” A little stitch of hurt creased the space between his eyebrows. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure I had the right to decide that, but I did. When he finally got in touch again, I didn’t give you the cards. I destroyed them.”