“Mom, if you get this, I left the papers from Grandfather under the blue…” Sarah’s voice was a rapid, breathless burst, then the line went completely dead, replaced by the flat hiss of static.
“What papers?” Lola asked, keeping her eyes on the brake lights of the minivan ahead of us.
“Her grandfather’s trust fund document,” I said, staring at the screen of my phone, which showed the call had lasted exactly seven seconds. “The seventy-thousand-dollar account for her tuition.”
“And the call cut off right there?”
“It was Friday night at nine,” I said. “I called her back ten times and it went straight to voicemail.”
Lola turned the steering wheel with one hand, her face tight in the glow of the dashboard lights. “Did you ask Kevin if he talked to her?”
“Kevin was at his accounting seminar in Peoria,” I said. “He did not get back until Sunday morning.”
“Did you call the dorm?”
“She was staying at the house this weekend to watch the dog,” I said, my thumb tracing the edge of the cracked phone screen.
Lola did not say anything else for five miles, but her fingers kept tapping a steady, anxious beat against the leather steering wheel.
The brick colonial on Oak Street looked exactly the same as it had when I left on Thursday morning, the white shutters straight, the driveway clear of any autumn leaves.
I let myself in through the side door, the heavy wood frame sealing out the wind and the traffic noise from the main road.
The kitchen was warm, smelling of toasted sourdough bread and the faint, sweet scent of the apple cider Kevin liked to keep on the stove.
Kevin stood at the granite island, his gray cardigan spotless, slowly spreading butter on a thick slice of toast with a silver butter knife.
