The morning after the phone call, I became someone I didn’t recognize. A teenage girl who waited for the front door to close, listened for the car to pull away, and then snuck to her stepmother’s bedroom with a pounding pulse.
I owed my mom that much.
Emily kept her side of the closet meticulous.
Her blouses were arranged by color. Her shoes were lined up like soldiers.
The drawer that was usually locked was open that day. Inside was a small wooden box. Locked. Heavy.
I shook it once and heard something soft shift inside. Whatever she was hiding, it lived in this box.
I put it back exactly where I’d found it and went to work on the rest of the room.
I shook it once.
My stepmother’s nightstand held nothing but a book of poetry and a hand cream. Her other drawers were unremarkable. That, somehow, felt worse.
***
That afternoon, I sat in Cynthia’s car two blocks from school and watched Emily leave. She didn’t drive home but went downtown.
My stepmother parked outside a squat brick building and disappeared through a glass door. The sign read Family Counseling Center.
She didn’t drive home.
***
An hour later, Emily came out and walked three doors down to a records office.
I sat in the passenger seat while my co-conspirator gripped the steering wheel.
***
