“Mr. Cole—”
“Is not coming yet.”
She hesitated.
Then:
“Ms. Hartwell is already upstairs.”
Of course she was.
I followed an employee through a security door and down a hallway lined with framed photographs of old Bellmere.
Room 417 was not a locker.
It was a private archival room.
Temperature controlled.
Shelves.
Worktable.
Acid-free boxes.
Two large black transit cases stood near the wall.
And beside them was Evelyn Hartwell.
My aunt.
Older than I remembered.
Smaller.
Her hair almost completely silver.
She looked at me.
Her face collapsed.
“Oh, Claire.”
I stopped in the doorway.
“Don’t.”
She nodded.
“Okay.”
For a long moment, neither of us moved.
Then I looked at the cases.
“Those are hers?”
Evelyn followed my gaze.
“Yes.”
“My mother’s?”
“Yes.”
I walked toward them.
My hand hovered above the first latch.
Then stopped.
“Why did you take them?”
Evelyn closed her eyes.
“I didn’t.”
