Chapter 7 - For Emma When He Betrays You
The motel heater clicked on at 6:14. I know because I watched the red numbers flip while I lay on top of the covers in my coat, my neck stiff from the pillow. The folder was still on the little table by the window where I'd left it the night before.
Maya sat in the chair beside it with both hands around a paper cup of coffee. She hadn't touched the folder. She'd slept on the other bed with her shoes off but her jacket on, like she was ready to get up fast if I needed her to. When she saw I was awake, she didn't ask if I'd slept. She just nodded toward the table.
"You said not to open it without someone else here," she said.
I sat up. My mouth was dry and my hair had come loose at the sides. I pushed it back. The morning light coming through the blinds was thin and gray, the parking lot kind of light that made everything look washed out. A truck pulled out onto the highway and the whole room trembled for a second.
I carried the trash bags in last night in two trips. They were lined up by the bathroom door now, tied at the top. The scarf with the blue border was folded over the back of the chair to dry. The photos were stacked on the dresser under the ice bucket so they wouldn't curl. The folder sat between all of it like it was waiting.
I pulled the other chair over and sat across from Maya.
My hands shook when I picked it up. It was heavier than it looked. The leather was dark and worn soft at the edges, cracked along the spine. The strap that had once held it closed was broken off, just a stub left. The words on the front were written in white ink in a slanting hand. For Emma, When He Betrays You.
I ran my thumb over it. Someone had taken time with those letters.
"You want me to just sit here?" Maya asked.
"Yeah. Please."
She nodded and leaned back. She didn't look at her phone. She just watched me, steady.
I opened the cover. The hinge gave a little sigh. Inside, on the left, was a clear plastic sleeve holding a single sheet of lined paper, yellowed at the edges. On the right were three smaller pockets. One held a motel receipt folded in half. One held a photocopy of what looked like a service invoice. One held a small key taped to an index card.
I lifted out the lined paper first. It wasn't long. Two paragraphs, dated in the top corner: October 14, two years ago.
Emma, the note said. If you're reading this when he says you don't live there anymore, don't argue with him in the driveway. He does this fast on purpose. He wants you upset and gone before you look close. Take what he throws out, even if it embarrasses you. The proof is in what he tried to discard. Start with the blue one. Then check where you used to keep the winter things. Don't trust his help. Come back with someone.
That was it. No signature. Just an initial at the bottom I couldn't quite make out, either an R or a B written fast.
I read it three times. My breathing went shallow on the second read. He does this fast on purpose. My throat tightened.
"Can I?" Maya said, holding her hand out.
I passed her the paper. She read it with her lips pressed together, then set it down carefully like it might tear.
"Blue one," she said. "Your scarf?"
I nodded. The scarf with the blue border was the only blue thing in those bags I could think of. I hadn't looked at it close the night before. I'd just folded it.
Maya pointed to the other pockets. "You want to look at the rest?"
I pulled out the motel receipt next. It was for a place up on Route 9, dated last March. Room paid in cash for two nights. No name printed. I didn't recognize the handwriting on the back, just a room number circled: 118. The service invoice was a photocopy, half cut off. It showed a pink sports car listed by license plate for new tires and an alignment. The date was smudged. The name on the customer line was blacked out with marker, but you could see the shape of the letters underneath if you tilted it.
The key was small and silver. The index card it was taped to said Unit 14 in the same slanting hand as the letter. No facility name. No town.
I set all three things in a row on the table. My hands had stopped shaking, but my stomach felt hollow.
"This person knew him," I said. "Not just knew him. Knew how he operates."
Maya picked up the letter again. "Two years ago. Who were you close to two years ago who would write this and not give it to you until now?"
I thought about the handwriting. Slanted, tight, the y's looped a certain way. It pulled at something in the back of my head. A woman who used to sit with me in folding chairs in a church basement while our husbands were up front shaking hands. A woman who'd stopped coming around suddenly. I wasn't sure. I didn't want to say a name out loud and make it real if I was wrong.
"I don't know yet," I said. It was true enough. "I have an idea, but I'm not saying it until I'm sure."
Maya accepted that. "Which pointer first?"
I looked at the row. Unit 14 with no location. A motel room from last March. A blacked-out invoice. And start with the blue one.
The scarf was right there on the chair. The storage unit could be anywhere in the county. The motel would mean driving and asking questions I wasn't ready for.
"Here," I said. I reached for the scarf. "She said start with the blue one. And she said don't trust his help. So I check this before I call anyone or go back there."
Maya moved her coffee so I'd have room. I laid the scarf flat across the table. The pattern was faded, the blue border soft from washing. I ran my fingers along the hem the way I'd never done in all the years I'd owned it.
Near the corner, sewn into the lining, I felt a hard little ridge no bigger than a grain of rice.
Maya saw my face change. "What?"
"There's something in here," I said.
I didn't cut it open yet. I folded the scarf back up and set it next to the folder. My heart was beating too fast. Whoever wrote that letter hadn't given me answers. She'd given me places to look, in order. And the first one was real.
May you like
I gathered the receipt and the invoice copy and the key and slid them back into their pockets. I closed the folder and kept my hand on the cover.
"We verify the scarf before anything else," I said. "Just us. Then we decide about Unit 14."
