Page 88 of This

“Sorry,” I say again. “But she can’t leave me that much money. It’s insane. She wasn’t right in the head.”

“Maggie Elizabeth was sound of mind when she was here, I can assure you.”

I narrow my eyes in response.

The woman only knew me a few months. Granted, she probably knew me better than I know myself. Hell, she sang me to sleep on more than one occasion. Not even my own mother bothered to do that when I was a child, but eighty-fucking-grand?

What if there’s mold at the cabin?I should buy a test kit.

Mr. Butteman slides a pen across to me, and I panic and push it back across the conference room table.

Rather than roll it back and risk entering into a never-ending cycle, which I’m prepared for, he gives a head shake. “You said you’re not leaving until Thursday. Take the day and drop by in the morning. If you’re still struggling, we can discuss your options.”

As much as I want to tell him to give it away right now, my reaction has caused enough of a disruption, so I agree. I’ve almost reached the door when I pivot. “Mr. Butteman?”

He stops gathering the papers and looks up.

I reach for my necklace, my new go-to fidget. “Even if I don’t take the money, could I have the DVD?”

With a gentle smile, he nods. “We’ll make a copy.”

After I fake a headache,Katie lets me leave early. I should stay, put in a real effort until my official last minute as her assistant, but I would hate to ruin my mediocre employee streak. Maybe I’ll spring for lunch tomorrow to make up for it.

I stop by the grocery store, for what I imagine is the last time. They keep the empty boxes from shipments, letting anyone from town take them as needed. I find a sturdy one in the pile, large enough for my project.

For the last year and a half, my life has revolved around boxes. Packing and unpacking the same ones to a point I probably only have one move left before I’ll need to trade them out for new ones. But the items inside the boxes have been mine—sometimes an extra item added in, likeDarkest Desires,or one left out, like when I gave up a T-shirt Little Stevie would drag around like a puppy. Until now anyway.

George’s workroom is full of boxes. Stacks along three out of the four walls a few feet deep, nearing the ceiling in places. Some are marked as being from George’s parents, others from Maggie’s. The rest seem to be their own keepsakes from throughout the years. Three families and multiple lifetimes sorted into categories that only make sense to whoever wrote with permanent marker on the cardboard sides. Crystal birds in one and glass figures that include birds that aren’t crystal in another.

No matter how ready Maggie was to die, she never brought herself to part with the boxes. I’ve looked through several over the past week. Hidden away are a few reminders of her to take with me, including a photo album set on top of one. The last picture is of the two of us, glued in with the dates I lived with her the first time written underneath.

A lady from the church will be here later to pick up the rest. Not Betty—I checked. Martha will decide what can be donated and what needs to be thrown away. Except for the items on the desk set against the wall, of course.

I lug in the box I markedGeorge’s Workstationand drop into the squeaky roller chair that gives off a puff of dust. Pliers, cutters, beads, and curved spoon handles with holes drilled in each end are waiting like George went to grab a snack and will be right back. One bracelet looks finished, lying next to a tool with a sharp tip that I decide is for engraving. I turn the worn metal over in my hands, running my fingers along the design bordering the edge. I leave it out and pack away the rest.

Most papers appear to be notes and measurements. Something catches my eye on one of them. Three black lines with a dot, followed by more lines and dots with the wordLovescribbled above them. I lift the page and uncover another beneath it. The entire alphabet is represented the same way. Morse code.

I pull Dane’s necklace from under my sweater and hold the silver bar between my fingers, examining the markings I’ve rubbed at hundreds of times, noticing the spaces between certain ones.

Oh, holy shit.

Reaching for a pen, I drag the chain over my head. I have to scratch at the paper a few times before the ink flows, and I start drawing the symbols and matching them to what George sketched. They’re not random etchings but purposeful.

Dane must not know, or he would have said something when I asked why it was so important to him. All he told me was it was the last thing he’d received from his mom. More than enough reason to always keep it close. Until I stole it.

Found it,I remind myself.

But I did steal it, didn’t I? I stole his necklace, and I stole his love, knowing full well I had no rights to either. Although he took mine, too, as hard as that is to admit.

When I decipher the last letter, I slump back in the chair, blinking rapidly at the two words in front of me. What has been around my neck for months. Over my heart.

Come

Home

Dane has nothing to do with the message, but I feel him in it. The way he would tell me, “Come here,” sounds the same in my head, and I let out my breath on a sob that surprises me. Tears fall on the paper to bleed the fresh ink and give life to the old.

Come home. Come home. Come home.I hear the words in his voice and cry until I hurt.

---