Nathaniel nodded.
“Where?”
Claire shook her head.
“We searched everything.”
Ruby thought about the six boxes.
The accordion folder.
The photographs.
The old apartment.
Then she remembered something.
“Not everything.”
Claire looked down.
“What do you mean?”
“Grandma’s desk.”
Claire stared at her.
“We don’t have Grandma’s desk.”
“Yes, we do.”
“No, sweetheart. The little table in your room came from a thrift shop.”
“Not my desk.”
Ruby pointed toward home as though the building were visible through Sofia’s wall.
“The desk downstairs.”
Mr. Harris had once told Ruby that the old wooden writing desk in the building’s tiny laundry room had belonged to someone who used to handle rent receipts for neighbors.
Claire’s expression slowly changed.
“Mom’s secretary desk.”
Nathaniel looked confused.
Claire stood.
“When management renovated our apartment after she died, I couldn’t keep all her furniture. Mr. Harris asked if the building could use her writing desk downstairs.”
