“We have a lot of old tax papers, Caroline,” he said, his voice low and reassuring, the tone he used when he wanted to end a conversation before it started.
“The lock looks new,” I said, tapping my collarbone twice with my free hand. “Is the key on your ring?”
He reached for the remote control on the table beside him and turned the volume up, the sound of the crowd at the fair filling the space between us. He did not look at me, his eyes remaining fixed on the screen as the tractor engine roared.
“I need to dust the dining table,” I said, but he made no sign that he had heard me.
At three in the afternoon, Luke went back to the yard to sign the weekend fuel receipts. The house was perfectly still, the hum of the refrigerator downstairs the only sound in the kitchen. I went back upstairs, carrying a small metal hairpin I had taken from the ceramic tray on my dresser.
I pulled the gray box down from the shelf once more and sat on the hallway floor, the oak planks hard against my thighs. The padlock was a simple brass model, the kind sold at the local hardware store for less than five dollars. I straightened the hairpin, slipped the thin wire into the keyhole, and twisted it until I felt a small tumbler yield.
The lock popped open with a quiet metallic snap that seemed too loud for the empty hallway. I lifted the lid, expecting to see the tax documents or perhaps the deed to the brick house on Maple Street.
Instead, the box was empty except for a small, black leather address book with frayed corners. I opened the cover, the dry binding cracking slightly in the quiet air. On the very first page, under the letter B, my sister Brenda’s name was written in blue ballpoint ink.
