Too clean.
Too organized.
Every object sat in a precise location.
The coffee mugs were arranged by size.
The dish towel hung perfectly straight.
Even the sugar packets were lined up inside a small ceramic container.
But on the kitchen table was something that didn't belong in a room like that.
A stack of old letters.
Newspaper clippings.
Photographs.
And a faded picture of a young man who looked nothing like the monster Carl had described.
“Tommy?” I asked.
Margaret nodded.
“He was twenty-nine when he died.”
I sat across from her.
“So tell me.”
For several seconds, she said nothing.
Then she began.
“My son wasn't killed by drugs.”
I leaned forward.
“You said he overdosed.”
“I didn't.”
“Carl did.”
Margaret gave a bitter smile.
“People prefer simple stories.”
She picked up a photograph.
Tommy was standing beside her at what looked like a graduation ceremony.
He had her eyes.
“He was an investigative journalist.”
That surprised me.
“He investigated fraud. Political corruption. Insurance scams.”
“And?”
“Three months before he died, he started looking into a private shipping company.”
My eyes narrowed.
“The kind that delivers packages?”
“Yes.”
Margaret slid a newspaper clipping toward me.
LOCAL JOURNALIST DIES OF APPARENT OVERDOSE.
“I was told he died alone in his apartment.”
She swallowed.
“But two days before that, Tommy told me something.”
“What?”
“He said if anything happened to him, I should throw away every package that came to my house.”
I looked at her.
“And you listened?”
“No.”
She looked down.
“I thought he was being paranoid.”
Her voice broke.
“The last package he received was opened by the police.”
“What was inside?”
“A flash drive.”
“Did they find anything?”
“They said it was empty.”
I understood.
“You don't believe them.”
“I know it wasn't.”
She reached into a drawer and pulled out a yellowed notebook.
“Tommy wrote down everything.”
Names.
Dates.
Tracking numbers.
One company appeared again and again.
Northline Logistics.
My eyes moved across the page.
Then stopped.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“My package.”
I took out my phone and pulled up the shipping information.
The pendant had been shipped through Northline Logistics.
Margaret closed her eyes.
“I know.”
I felt sick.
“So you saw the label.”
“Yes.”
“And you panicked.”
“Yes.”
“That still doesn't explain why my name was put on the package.”
“I think someone wanted to test me.”
“Test you?”
“To see if I still had Tommy's evidence.”
I stared at her.
“And you thought throwing my package in the trash was the best way to handle that?”
She looked ashamed.
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Because I was terrified.”
I stood.
Margaret flinched.
“Daniel—”
“You know what pisses me off?”
“Everything.”
“You had twenty-four hours to tell me the truth.”
“I know.”
“You watched me believe you stole something connected to my dead mother.”
Tears ran down her face.
“I know.”
“And you said nothing.”
“I couldn't.”
“Why?”
She looked directly at me.
“Because I didn't know whether you were involved.”
That stopped me.
“What?”
“I didn't know you when you moved here.”
“You've known me eight months.”
“Eight months isn't long.”
“So you thought I was part of some criminal conspiracy?”
“I didn't know what to think.”
I laughed without humor.
“Unbelievable.”
“You're right.”
“No. I'm not right. I'm furious.”
“You should be.”
I picked up my phone and walked toward the door.
Margaret followed.
“Where are you going?”
“To the police.”
She went pale.
“Daniel.”
“Don't.”
“Please.”
“You've had your chance.”
I opened the door.
She shouted behind me.
“Your mother's necklace isn't in that package!”
I stopped.
Slowly, I turned around.
“What?”
Margaret was crying.
“The pendant was a decoy.”
My heart pounded.
“What did you say?”
“I ordered the real pendant.”
“Where is it?”
“I have it.”
My anger became something hotter.
“You have my mother's necklace?”
“I was going to give it to you.”
“When?”
“When I knew you were safe.”
I walked back toward her.
“You stole from me.”
“No.”
“You just admitted you have it.”
“I bought it.”
“Then give it to me.”
She stared at me.
Then walked to a cabinet.
From the back, she removed a small velvet box.
My hands shook as she gave it to me.
Inside was the pendant.
Exactly as I remembered it.
I couldn't speak.
My mother had worn the original every day.
After she died, the pendant had been damaged when the chain broke during the funeral.
I'd spent weeks searching for someone who could recreate it.
Margaret had somehow found the jeweler.
Paid for it.
And kept it.
I looked up at her.
“Why?”
She whispered, “Because I saw you sitting on your porch after your mother died.”
My eyes narrowed.
“You knew my mom?”
“No.”
“Then how?”
“I heard you talking on the phone.”
I remembered.
A call with my sister.
I had been outside because I couldn't stand being inside the house.
Margaret continued.
“You said you wished you'd bought her something better for her last birthday.”
My throat tightened.
“I did.”
“I know.”
“And?”
“You said she deserved one more beautiful thing.”
I stared at the pendant.
Margaret wiped her eyes.
“I thought maybe you deserved one too.”
For the first time, I didn't know what to say.
Then her phone rang.
She looked at the screen.
And went pale.
I grabbed it.
Unknown number.
She whispered, “Don't answer.”
I answered.
“Hello?”
Silence.
Then a man's voice.
“Mr. Brooks.”
My blood turned cold.
“You have something that doesn't belong to you.”
“Who is this?”
“Return the package.”
I looked at Margaret.
“Or what?”