Page 71 of His

“Shouldn’t take long,” I mutter, looking around the bedroom, a single bed and a stack of boxes in the corner.

Keeping the lights off, we turn on our cell phone flashlights. We make quick work of searching the bedroom first, the closet, the bathroom. Then the living room and kitchen.

“Why do you think Leo has so little possessions?” I ask as I filter through the pots and pans.

“He went straight from the military, where he was deployed six months a year, to working for me.”

“It’s sad.”

“It’s his decision. Just like it was his decision to continue to take my money while he was fucking Valerie. Just like it was his decision to not tell me that my child was actually his. Just like it was his decision to watch me weep over her grave, and still not tell me.”

A scraping sound outside the front door pulls our attention. We freeze, listen. A cat meows loudly, then fades away.

I blow out a breath and quickly replace the pots. “We need to hurry. We’ve checked everywhere. There’s nothing here. Let’s go.”

“One more look.”

Groaning, I push off the floor and follow Astor back into the bedroom. He rechecks the loose floorboards, the underside and backside of the bed, then puts his hands on his hips and studies the closet.

“One more look . . .”

I linger in the closet doorway as Astor filters through Leo’s clothes and shoes as he did before.

“Come on, Astor, we need to go.”

He turns, pauses, then looks up. We both freeze, staring at the small square covered cut out in the ceiling. A scuttle attic.

“I’ll get a chair.” I run into the kitchen, grab a chair and run back.

Astor climbs onto the seat and moves the thin panel cover.

“Hold my phone.”

Astor pulls himself through the small space, then reaches down for the phone.

My heart pounds as I watch the flashlight bounce around until suddenly, it stops.

“Did you find something?” I whisper-hiss, wanting to get out of here.

After a minute, Astor lowers himself out of the opening.

“What is it?” I ask, staring at the brown manila envelope in his hand.

“I found it on top of the insulation.”

My heart hammers as I follow him to the kitchen table. I hover my light above the envelope as Astor opens the flap and begins pulling out the contents, laying out each, one by one.

There are a dozen pictures of Chloe, from infancy to the age she died. A small beanie, the kind the hospital gives newborns. Multiple finger paintings ranging from smears to stick figures, drawn by Chloe.

Astor picks up one of the finger paintings and stares at it until his hand begins trembling. His face has grown flushed and that crazy, wild look in his eye has returned.

Two words materialize in my head.

Get. Out.

“Astor, take it and let’s go; let’s get out of here right?—”

The front door opens.

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