“We’re done cleaning.”
Ellie frowned.
“Why?”
“Because I’m tired.”
She followed me toward the attic stairs.
Then suddenly stopped.
“Oh!”
I turned.
“What?”
“He gave me something for you yesterday.”
Every hair on my arms rose.
“What do you mean?”
She ran downstairs toward her backpack.
A minute later, she returned holding something small.
“He said you’d know what it meant.”
She placed it in my palm.
My knees nearly gave out.
A red pocketknife.
One blade was broken.
The handle was scratched and worn.
And near the bottom were two letters carved into the plastic.
L.A.
My initials.
David’s father had given him that knife when he started working at the hardware store.
David carried it everywhere.
Then, shortly before the fire, it disappeared.
David told me he had lent it to Charlie while they repaired a bicycle.
Charlie always insisted he had given it back.
Wrapped around the knife was a folded note.
I opened it.
There were only three lines.
Call this number.
The truth isn’t what it seems.
You shouldn’t have trusted your family.
“Grandma?”
I realized Ellie was staring at me.
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
Neither did I feel fine.
I called the number.
A man answered after two rings.
“Laura?”
His voice was wrong.
Too young.
Definitely not David.
“Who is this?”
“My name is Tom.”
“Where did you get this knife?”
