Chapter 11 - My Father's Box
Dad’s things were stored in Mom’s basement.
Or they had been.
After his death, she controlled everything.
His clothing.
Documents.
Tools.
Photographs.
Rachel and I each received a watch.
The rest stayed with Mom.
But I remembered one box.
A blue metal toolbox Dad kept locked in his workshop.
When I was seventeen, he caught me trying to open it.
“Some things belong to adults, Danny.”
“What’s inside?”
“Insurance.”
I thought he meant policies.
Maybe cash.
Now I wasn’t sure.
I called Uncle Steven, Dad’s younger brother.
We hadn’t spoken in almost two years.
He answered cautiously.
“Daniel?”
“I need to ask about Dad.”
Silence.
“What about him?”
“Did he ever tell you he was afraid of Mom?”
Longer silence.
My heart started pounding.
“Uncle Steven.”
“You shouldn’t be asking me this.”
“Why?”
“Because Linda will know.”
“How?”
“She always knows.”
I looked at Megan.
She was listening.
“Dad had a blue toolbox.”
Steven exhaled sharply.
“So you remember.”
“What was in it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where is it?”
“I thought Linda destroyed it.”
“Why?”
“Your father called me a week before he died. Said if anything happened to him, I needed to find that box.”
My mouth went dry.
“Did you?”
“I tried.”
“And?”
“It was gone.”
“What was Dad worried about?”
Steven lowered his voice.
“Money.”
“What money?”
“Your grandmother left him property.”
“I know.”
“No, you know about the house.”
I waited.
“There were investments too. Almost nine hundred thousand dollars.”
I sat down.
“What?”
“Your father believed money was disappearing.”
“Mom?”
“He never said directly.”
“But you thought it.”
“Yes.”
“What does this have to do with Megan?”
“I don’t know.”
Then Steven added, “Unless Linda needs control again.”
Again.
That word.
“What do you mean?”
“Your father was preparing to leave her.”
My childhood rearranged itself in one sentence.
“What?”
“He’d met with a divorce attorney.”
“No.”
“I drove him.”
Mom had told us their marriage was perfect.
She had spent eleven years speaking of Dad like a saint.
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither did I.”
“Was his crash investigated?”
“Yes.”
“Anything suspicious?”
“No.”
Steven hesitated.
“But his briefcase was missing.”
“What briefcase?”
“He took it everywhere that month.”
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
A photograph appeared.
Blue metal toolbox.
Sitting on a concrete floor.
Then another message:
SHE DIDN’T DESTROY IT.
I stood.
“Who keeps texting us?”
Megan stared at the picture.
“Zoom in.”
I did.
Behind the toolbox was a stack of physical-therapy equipment.
Resistance bands.
Foam rollers.
A clinic logo.
I recognized it.
May you like
Rachel’s workplace.
My sister had Dad’s box.
