Chapter 4 - The Suitcase By The Cabinets
Sophie had not let go of my neck since she'd whispered it. Her weight was solid against my chest, her breathing shallow and fast against my collarbone. Across the kitchen, Claire stood exactly where she'd been when I'd come in holding Sophie — by the white cabinets, the wood floor catching the daylight, that glass of orange juice held steady at chest height like she was posing for a photo.
And beside her, the suitcase.
I hadn't really looked at it before. Dark rolling case, handle extended all the way up. It was the kind she took when she went to see her sister in Asheville, but she hadn't said anything about a trip. The zipper was open about six inches at the top, not enough to gape, just enough to show what was folded inside. I could see teal fabric, neatly folded. The exact same color as the pants she was wearing.
Claire smiled, that calm fixed smile, and tilted the glass a fraction toward us.
"You've been holding her all morning," she said. "You want me to take her so you can actually drink it?"
I shifted Sophie higher on my shoulder. "We're good," I said. "Let me get her settled first."
The orange juice didn't move. The liquid was opaque, thick-looking, no pulp. It hadn't been there when I'd made coffee an hour earlier.
Claire's eyes flicked down to the suitcase, then back to me. She didn't explain it. She didn't need to — that was the trick. If I asked, I'd be the one making it weird.
Sophie pressed her face harder into my neck. I felt her small hands tighten.
"I need to use the bathroom," Claire said after a second, her voice light. "Don't let it get warm. It tastes better cold."
She set the glass down on the counter next to the sink. Carefully, centered on a coaster. Then she turned and walked down the short hallway toward the bathroom, her socks silent on the wood. She didn't pull the suitcase with her. She left it there, handle up, zipper half-open.
I listened for the bathroom door to click. It did. The fan came on.
I didn't move at first. I stood in the bright kitchen with Sophie clinging to me and stared at that suitcase. From where I was, I could see the top fold of those teal pants, a white top folded beneath it, and the corner of something white and papery — an envelope, or a stack of papers folded in thirds. The kind that comes from a bank or a landlord.
The bathroom fan hummed steadily. Water ran for a second, then stopped.
I took two quiet steps closer, Sophie still in my arms. She lifted her head just enough to look at what I was looking at.
Close up, the side pocket of the suitcase was more revealing than the main compartment. It was the zippered pocket on the front, and it wasn't fully zipped either. Something had been slipped in in a hurry and the zipper had caught on it.
A silver blister pack, half-empty, with four or five round pills still pushed into the foil. And behind it, a small amber prescription bottle on its side, its white label facing out but creased where it had been pressed against the fabric. I could see the shape of the label — pharmacy label, printed, with a blue stripe along the bottom edge, the kind CVS used on the bottle I'd seen in our own medicine cabinet months ago. The cap was white, child-proof.
I didn't touch it. My hand hovered for a second and I pulled it back. If I pulled it out, the plastic would crinkle, the bottle would clack against the handle. The zipper would move. She'd know I'd looked.
I memorized it instead. Amber bottle, maybe thirty-count size, white cap, white label with blue. Silver foil pack with round white tablets, the foil torn where pills had been punched through. Tucked in the front pocket, not buried — easy to reach.
Sophie whispered, so quiet I barely heard it over the fan, "Is that hers?"
I didn't answer. I just turned us slightly so we were facing the window again, putting the suitcase back in my peripheral vision instead of dead center. My heart was beating hard enough that I was sure she could feel it through my shirt.
The bathroom door opened. Claire came back down the hall, hands dry, smoothing her cardigan. She glanced at the counter — the glass was exactly where she'd left it — and then at me, and then at the suitcase. Her smile didn't waver, but I saw a tiny adjustment in her shoulders, like she'd registered that I was standing a foot closer to it than before.
"Everything okay?" she asked.
May you like
"Yeah," I said. "She just wanted water. I'm going to get her some."
I didn't look at the suitcase again. I carried Sophie past it toward the fridge, putting distance between us and the counter where the glass waited, keeping my movements slow like nothing had changed. But I'd seen what I needed to see, and I'd left it exactly as she'd left it.
