To her disappointment, the first box was stuffed to the brim with wrinkled sweatshirts and workout gear. She rummaged half-heartedly through it before closing it back up and moving on. The next box contained a miscellaneous assortment of men’s clothing. Opening the final box, she jerked backward on her heels, the odor of sweaty sneakers assailing her senses. Curling her lip in disgust, she closed the box back up and got to her feet, defeated. She still knew next to nothing about Ray or his past, other than what he’d told her—a version she harbored mounting doubts about.
Determined not to give up on her quest to uncover any secrets Ray might be hiding, she made her way over to the closet and slid open the mirrored door. There was always a chance he he’d stashed some personal items inside. A black, canvas backpack on the floor caught her eye—modern and masculine. Definitely out of place in this old lady haven of fluff and bric-a-brac. After throwing a glance over her shoulder to reassure herself she was alone, Sonia swiftly unzipped the bag and viewed the contents: men’s jeans, boots, and a flannel shirt—in addition to a few basic toiletries, and a fancy-looking GPS.
She closed the bag back up and then, as an afterthought, slipped her fingers into the zippered front pouch. Pulling out a map, she carefully spread it out on the floor in front of her. A yellow highlighter marked a trail into the Blue Ridge mountains, and a set of coordinates was neatly printed in blue ink along the edge of the map. A campsite, most likely. She snapped a quick picture of the coordinates to check them out later, then folded the map back up and returned it to the pouch. Other than surmising that Ray Jenkins liked to hike or camp, she still hadn’t learned anything of consequence about the man, or his presumed dead wife. Frustrated, she set about putting everything back the way she’d found it. Maybe Ray actually had lost his memory, but she wasn’t taking any chances. If he’d lied in the past, he might be lying now too.
As she shoved the bag back into the closet, she caught a glimpse of several dilapidated women’s shoeboxes on the shelf above the clothing rack. The lid was propped open on one of them and she could see some papers sticking out. She had yet to find any documentation pertaining to Henry, or Ray’s wife, but maybe she could learn something about Ray from his mother’s records. Forgive me, Celia, she mouthed as she reached for the box. Fingering through it, she quickly realized it was full of old bank statements. Ray had mentioned something about his mother transferring several thousand dollars each month to an account he suspected was his brother Tom’s. Curious, Sonia scanned the transactions on the most recent statement. The sum of $4500 stuck out like a sore thumb in comparison to the other much smaller amounts that Celia withdrew on a regular basis. Sonia leafed through several more statements. They all showed the same transfer on the fifteenth of each month. Apparently, Ray had been telling the truth about something.
She eyed the remaining shoeboxes, but a ghostly sense of claustrophobia was building, closing off her airways. She needed to get out of this house—the place smelled of dust, damp, death, and too many buried secrets. Skin prickling, she jammed the statements back into the overflowing shoebox and replaced the lid. She had crossed a line by prying into Celia’s personal finances. This was between Celia and Tom. It had nothing to do with Sonia’s quest to get to the bottom of Ray’s evasiveness and his strange relationship with his son. She glanced at her watch. Her mother would be wondering where she was by now. Time to wrap up her search and get back home.
As she turned to leave, a sound startled her. Her heart leapt into her throat. Was that the back door opening? Surely Ray couldn’t have been discharged from the hospital already. Had he left of his own accord? All her fears about her mysterious neighbor came rushing back with a vengeance. What if he really had faked his memory loss? But to what purpose? And then another thought struck. What if this was Ray’s younger brother, Tom? It was possible the lawyer who’d settled Celia’s affairs had managed to track him down. Or maybe the police had got a hold of him. Either way, it would be hard to explain what she was doing in his mother’s bedroom.
Silently, she got to her feet and tip-toed toward the open door, freezing at the thud of footsteps. Seconds later, Jessica burst into the room. ”Mom! What are you doing?” Her eyes darted behind Sonia as if looking for someone. ”Why are you in Ray’s bedroom? Is he here?”
Sonia shook her head vehemently, trying to collect her thoughts. ”No, sweetie. He’s away on business. He asked me to pick up some stuff for Henry.” Her heart lurched in her chest. “Where is Henry?”
“He’s napping. I went out to the garden to play on the tire swing, and I saw your car. Why’d you park here?”
“I thought it would be easier to throw everything in the car rather than carry it across the lawn,” Sonia said breezily. “Let’s go grab Henry’s stuff.”
”You’ve been here for ages,” Jessica said, following her down the hallway to Henry’s room. “What were you doing this whole time?”
Sonia thought for a moment, wishing for the umpteenth time that her daughter hadn’t inherited her grandmother’s keen nose for information. She hated lying to her. Jessica got enough of that from Finn: lies about when he was going to call her, what he was sending
