“Her studio.”
I stared at her.
Claire’s studio had been a small room above the detached garage of our former house. After her funeral, Rachel and I packed it together.
Nothing had appeared disturbed.
“What do you mean disappeared?”
“I found an index card in her desk. It listed boxes C-1 through C-18. But only six boxes were in the room.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I thought you had taken the others.”
“And I assumed you had.”
For years, each of us had believed the other was protecting Claire’s missing papers.
Someone else had removed them.
Rachel sat down slowly.
“C-17 might still exist.”
“Where?”
“Claire rented a safe-deposit box.”
I felt my pulse quicken.
“She never told me.”
“She opened it under her maiden name.”
“How do you know?”
“She asked me to be the secondary contact.”
“Then why have you never opened it?”
“I tried after she died. The bank said the box had already been closed.”
“By whom?”
