“Enough!”
I stared at him through tears.
Then I picked up my coat.
“I need this job,” I said quietly. “More than you could possibly understand.”
His eyes met mine.
“But if that necklace came from my brother, I will find out how.”
I walked out.
Mrs. Alvarez followed me downstairs.
“Rachel.”
I kept walking.
“Please.”
I stopped near the front door.
She lowered her voice.
“You should go home tonight.”
“Was Ryan here?”
She hesitated.
That hesitation answered everything.
My eyes filled.
“When?”
“I cannot tell you.”
“Cannot or will not?”
“Both.”
I laughed bitterly.
“My son is sick. My daughter is hungry. I came here because I had nothing left. And now I find the one object that belonged to my dead brother hanging around your employer’s neck.”
Mrs. Alvarez looked genuinely shaken.
“I am sorry.”
“That doesn’t help.”
“No.”
She reached into her pocket.
“Take this.”
She handed me an envelope.
I didn’t open it.
“What is it?”
“Your first week’s salary.”
“I worked two hours.”
“Mr. Bennett pays caregivers weekly in advance.”
My hands trembled.
“How much?”
“Five thousand dollars.”
I stared at her.
I thought I had misheard.
“Five thousand?”
“Yes.”
I nearly dropped the envelope.
That was more money than I had earned in three months at my old cleaning job.
“Why?”
“Because no one stays.”
I thought of Brandon.
Medicine.
Food.
Heat.
Rent.
I closed my fingers around the envelope.
“Am I fired?”
Mrs. Alvarez looked upstairs.
“I don’t know.”
I went home.
The first thing I did was take Brandon to an urgent care clinic.
He had pneumonia.
Not severe enough for hospitalization, but close.
The doctor prescribed antibiotics and told me he needed warmth, rest, fluids, and food.
I paid without checking the price.
That alone nearly made me cry.
Then I bought groceries.
Real groceries.
Chicken.
Milk.
Fruit.
Bread.
Eggs.
Cereal Emma liked.
Cookies.
Fresh vegetables.
Medicine.
Two new blankets.
A space heater.
Emma stared at the shopping bags as if I had brought home Christmas.
“Mommy, are we rich?”
I laughed and cried at the same time.
“No, baby.”
I kissed her forehead.
“We just got lucky.”
That night, after they slept, I sat at our tiny kitchen table and pulled an old cardboard box from the closet.
Ryan’s box.
I had carried it through six apartments and two marriages.
Inside were photographs.
Letters.
School papers.
A baseball glove.
And one picture that made my heart stop.
Ryan at twenty-one.
Standing beside me outside our grandmother’s house.
Around his neck was the same silver locket.
I turned the photo over.
Summer 2007.
Three years before his death.
My hands began to shake.
Ryan had disappeared in October 2010.
Police said his car had been found near Lake Michigan.
A body had washed ashore eleven days later.
Badly decomposed.
The police told us identification was made through dental records and personal effects.
There had been no viewing.
We cremated what we were told was Ryan’s body.
I had stood at a cemetery holding a small urn while a priest talked about eternal peace.
But what if it hadn’t been Ryan?
The thought was insane.
Impossible.
And yet the necklace existed.
I barely slept.
At seven the next morning, my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Rachel?”
Christopher Bennett.
I sat up.
“What do you want?”
A long silence.
“Come back.”
“Why?”
“Because you need the job.”
Anger flared through me.
“And you need someone willing to tolerate you.”
Another pause.
“That too.”
I looked toward Brandon sleeping on the couch.
“Will you tell me about Ryan?”
