Chapter 7 - The Letters That DisappearedDaniel showed Lena the messages before leaving the foundation office.
She photographed the screen, noted the number, and advised him not to reply.
"Do you recognize it?" she asked.
"No."
"Could it be Caleb?"
"Possibly."
"Don't assume. Preserve it."
Daniel nodded.
He had begun to understand that anger could make a person careless.
Whoever sent the message might be trying to frighten him into making a mistake.
At home, he went directly to the study.
The room had once belonged to Elena.
Its tall windows overlooked the garden. There were built-in bookshelves, a brass desk lamp, and a large oak cabinet that Daniel had bought for her twenty years earlier.
After Elena died, he had barely entered it.
Sarah gradually took it over for foundation work.
Daniel had never objected.
He opened the cabinet.
The upper shelves contained office supplies.
The lower drawers held recent foundation correspondence.
But the wooden document box Elena had used for personal letters was gone.
Daniel remembered it distinctly.
Dark walnut.
A small brass latch.
Inside were cards Elena had written for Michael's birthdays, along with letters for important moments in his life.
She had known she might not live to see them.
Daniel searched the shelves.
Nothing.
He called Rebecca.
His sister answered immediately.
"Daniel? How is Michael?"
He had told her about the injury the previous evening.
"He's resting."
"Good. I'm coming up tomorrow."
"Rebecca, do you remember Elena's letter box?"
A pause.
"Of course."
"Do you know where it is?"
"It should be in your study."
"It's not."
"Maybe Sarah moved it."
Daniel said nothing.
Rebecca's voice hardened.
"What has that woman done now?"
"I don't know."
"Daniel, I asked you about those letters two Christmases ago."
His stomach tightened.
"What?"
"Michael was turning fifteen. Elena wrote one specifically for that birthday."
Daniel pressed a hand against the desk.
"I don't remember that conversation."
"Sarah told me you'd decided the letters were too upsetting for him."
Daniel closed his eyes.
"She said that?"
"Yes."
"And you believed her?"
Rebecca hesitated.
"I tried to call you afterward. You were in Chicago. Sarah answered your phone and said you'd call back."
"I never got the message."
"I know that now."
Daniel looked at the empty shelf.
Rebecca continued.
"Elena asked me to make sure Michael received those letters. I should have come and delivered them myself."
"Don't blame yourself."
"I should have known."
Daniel heard the pain in his sister's voice.
He recognized it because it matched his own.
That afternoon, he asked Michael about the letters.
His son stared.
"Mom wrote letters for me?"
"Yes."
"More than one?"
Daniel nodded.
"For birthdays and other milestones."
Michael's eyes filled.
"Sarah said Mom left a few things, but you threw them away because they made you sad."
Daniel felt sick.
"I never threw them away."
Michael stood.
"Then where are they?"
"I don't know yet."
Michael turned toward the window.
"She told me Mom didn't really know what kind of person I'd grow up to be."
Daniel could barely speak.
"Why would she say that?"
"Because I asked if there was anything from Mom for my sixteenth birthday."
The room became unbearably quiet.
Daniel remembered that birthday.
A business dinner.
A late flight.
A gift he had ordered online.
He had called Michael from an airport.
He had never asked what the boy wanted most.
"Son..."
Michael shook his head.
"I don't want another apology right now."
Daniel nodded.
"Okay."
"I just want the letters."
"I'll find them if they're still there."
That evening, Rebecca arrived earlier than expected.
She entered carrying a canvas bag and wearing the determined expression that had frightened Daniel since childhood.
"Show me the study."
Together, they searched the cabinets.
Rebecca noticed something Daniel had overlooked.
A faint rectangular mark on the carpet beneath the window.
"Something heavy stood here."
Daniel looked closer.
"The old document chest."
"What chest?"
"Elena kept archival files in it. Foundation plans, photographs, early contracts."
Rebecca frowned.
"That used to be in the study?"
"Yes. Sarah moved it to storage last year."
"Where?"
Daniel hesitated.
"There was a storage unit."
Rebecca folded her arms.
"Do you know the address?"
"No."
"Daniel."
"I trusted her."
Rebecca's expression softened, but her voice remained firm.
"Trust doesn't mean you stop paying attention."
He looked at the empty space.
"I know."
From the doorway, Michael spoke.
"I know where the storage place is."
Both adults turned.
Michael held up an old Christmas card.
"Sarah made me carry boxes there last winter."
"Do you remember the location?" Daniel asked.
Michael nodded.
"And I remember something else."
His father waited.
"One box had Mom's name on it."
"Okay."
May you like
Michael's voice broke.
"Sarah told me to put it beside the trash dumpster."
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