Chapter 21: The Box on the Stoop

The box was on my stoop at 7:15 on Friday morning, set square in the middle of the mat.

It was a banker's box with the lid taped down and COLVIN written on the end in marker, and then crossed out, and then KESSLER written under it.

I looked up and down the street.

There was no Audi, which was obvious, and no truck.

Across the way, the woman with the rake was taking a bag of leaves to the curb and watching me with great interest.

Dean was gone.

He had done exactly what I asked.

It was a strange feeling, being obeyed by him.

I carried the box inside and set it on my kitchen table.

Will came through the vestibule in his socks, holding a coffee, and stood behind my chair without saying anything.

I cut the tape with a paring knife.

On top lay a ring of keys.

My house key, the garage remote, and the little brass key to the cellar that I had been looking for since June.

Under the keys was a leather wallet card, cut neatly in half with kitchen scissors.

It was in Dean's handwriting.

Claire (wife).

Both halves were stacked and rubber-banded together.

Beside them was a sheet of lined paper folded once.

You were right about the price.

That was all.

No apology, no paragraph, no bird.

I put the paper down on the table and looked at it for a while.

"You okay?" Will said.

"I'm trying to decide if that's the best thing he's ever written."