“You’re grieving. This isn’t the time to make emotional choices.”
I looked past him toward the back window. Victor’s shelter sat behind the fence, partially hidden by weeds.
“Funny,” I said. “Mom told me the same thing about you.”
Mark’s hand froze on a cardboard box.
“What did Stephanie say?”
“That if you came around, I shouldn’t let you touch the blue box.”
For the briefest moment, something changed in his face.
Then he laughed.
“She was sick.”
“She was scared.”
“Of me?”
“You tell me.”
He glanced toward the relatives gathered in the living room before lowering his voice.
“Leave old pain buried, Fiona.”
The next morning, I cooked beef stew because it was the only meal I knew how to make without ruining it. I packed it into one of Mom’s plastic containers and drove back to her house.
The first thing I noticed was that Victor’s shelter was empty.
The blanket had been folded.
The coffee cans were gone.
Even the firewood had been stacked neatly.
“Victor?” I called.
“Fiona.”
I turned around.
Victor stood near the back steps wearing a clean dark coat. Beside him sat a black SUV I had never seen before.
My stomach sank.
“Whose car is that?”
Before he could answer, Mrs. Bell stepped out from the driver’s side.
“Borrowed from my nephew,” she said. “Victor wanted to say goodbye to your mother without Mark causing trouble. We visited her grave.”
I looked at Victor’s coat.
He touched the sleeve awkwardly.
“Borrowed too.”
Then I noticed the locket in his hand.
“Where did you get my mother’s necklace? I know it from photos.”
His thumb traced the dented silver edge.
“Stephanie gave it to me.”
“That locket was lost.”
“No,” Victor said. “She told you it was.”
My chest tightened.
“Why would my mother give you her locket?”
“Because I gave it to her first.”
I stared at him.
“When?”
“When she was around ten, maybe younger,” he said. “She’d had a terrible day. I told her if she wore it, she could pretend I was walking beside her.”
Mrs. Bell lowered her gaze.
Victor opened the locket.
Inside was a faded photograph of two children sitting on porch steps, his arm wrapped around her shoulders.
Scratched onto the back in childish handwriting were three words.
“My safe place.”
My throat tightened.
“That’s Mom?”
Victor nodded.
“And the boy is you?”
“Yes.”
I stepped backward.
“No. Mom only had one brother.”
“Mark was the youngest.”
“You’re lying.”
“I wish I was.”
“If you were her brother,” I said, my voice rising, “why did she make you live outside?”
Victor flinched.
Before he could answer, Mrs. Bell spoke.
“Because Mark scared her.”
I turned to her.
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