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.
“Scared her how?”
“He told Stephanie people would call her unfit if she let Victor near you. She was poor, raising a child alone, and terrified.”
Victor closed the locket.
“She kept me close. That was all she believed she could risk. I wasn’t easy to help, Fiona. But your mother never stopped trying.”
My mind immediately returned to Mom’s hospital room.
“The blue box,” I whispered.
Victor looked up.
“She told you?”
“She said not to let Mark touch it.”
Mrs. Bell pointed toward the house.
“Then stop standing here.”
—
I rushed inside and tore through Mom’s closet until I found the blue box hidden beneath old blankets.
My name was written across the lid.
Inside were photographs, letters, and envelopes.
The first picture showed Mom as a little girl standing beside Victor. Her knees were scraped. His lip was split.
On the back, in Mom’s handwriting, were the words:
“Victor walked me home again.”
I opened the letter addressed to me.
“Fiona,
