Chapter 8: The Box

Wednesday night is Bible study, and Mom has not missed one in twenty years.

At six-fifteen, Luke parked the delivery van three houses down from mine and turned off the headlights.

"I'll stay with the engine running," he said. "If anyone comes, I honk twice."

"You don't have to do this."

"Yes, I do." His eyes went to the dark house. "Go. Be quick."

Bella unlocked the front door with her own key, and the house closed around us.

It smelled the way it always did, of vanilla and lemon cleaner.

On the dining room sideboard was a pecan pie under a glass dome, left for tomorrow.

On the wall in the hallway, Bella at six, Bella at ten, Bella in a ballet costume, Bella on Santa's knee.

I walked past them without slowing.

The sewing room was at the back of the house, behind a door that had always been shut.

I had never been allowed inside.

Bella turned the knob and it opened.

It was a small, neat room with a machine by the window, bolts of fabric on shelves and a cedar chest against the far wall.

A quilt lay folded on top of the chest.

Bella lifted it off and set it on the floor.

Underneath, a brass padlock hung from the latch.

"Do you know the key?" I whispered.

"The thimble jar."

She reached into a glass jar of thimbles on the shelf and fished around.

She came up with a small key and held it out.

Her hand was trembling too hard to use it.

I took the key and opened the lock.

The lid creaked.

Inside, more folded quilts. Under the quilts, a flat metal box that had once held holiday cookies.

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