Chapter 3
The police took the list.
They took photos of the room.
They took Jake too.
Not in handcuffs at first.
But when Officer Daniels found my grandmother’s silver bracelet in Jake’s duffel bag, everything changed.
Jake shouted.
“That’s mine!”
I almost laughed.
The bracelet had my grandmother’s initials engraved inside.
M.E.C.
Margaret Elaine Carter.
My throat tightened when the officer held it up.
I had not even known it was missing yet.
That was the worst part.
I had been standing in the damage I could see.
But Jake had been stealing in quiet places too.
Drawers.
Closets.
Boxes.
Memories.
They put him in the back of the cruiser.
He pressed his face close to the window and stared at me.
No guilt.
Just rage.
Mr. Alvarez stood beside me on the porch.
“You shouldn’t stay here tonight,” he said.
“I don’t have anywhere else.”
“You have us.”
His wife, Rosa, appeared with a robe over her pajamas.
She hugged me before I could refuse.
“You come next door,” she said firmly. “No arguing.”
I looked back at my house.
Police tape on my front door.
Red wine on my rug.
My mother’s photo still facedown on the table.
I felt something inside me crack.
“I need to find her box.”
“We will,” Rosa said.
Not maybe.
Not try.
Will.
I slept on their couch for three hours.
At dawn, I woke to my phone buzzing nonstop.
Aunt Linda.
Jake’s mother.
I answered because some foolish part of me still wanted family to mean something.
She didn’t say hello.
“How could you call the police on your own cousin?”
I closed my eyes.
“Good morning to you too.”
“Don’t be smart with me. Jake told me everything.”
“I’m sure he did.”
“He said you embarrassed him, lied about him stealing, and got him arrested because he had friends over.”
“He destroyed my house.”
“He made a mistake.”
“He stole my mother’s box.”
Silence.
Then softer.
Almost careful.
“What box?”
My stomach tightened.
“You know what box.”
“No,” she said. “I don’t.”
“The wooden one Mom left me.”
Another pause.
Too long.
“Sarah, maybe you should drop this before it gets uglier.”
I sat up.
“What does that mean?”
“It means Jake is all I have. He’s been struggling.”
“So he can steal from me?”
“He feels like you got everything.”
I stared at the wall.
“There it is.”
“You inherited your mother’s house money. You have a career. You always landed on your feet.”
“You mean I worked.”
“You think he didn’t suffer too?”
I stood, anger pushing sleep away.
“Aunt Linda, did Jake bring you my mother’s box?”
“No.”
But her voice cracked.
I heard it.
“Aunt Linda.”
She hung up.
By eight, I was at the police station with Officer Daniels.
He listened to the call recording and wrote down Aunt Linda’s name.
“Family cases get messy,” he said.
“They were messy before I called you.”
He nodded.
“We searched the vehicle Jake borrowed. Found pawn receipts.”
My heart stopped.
“For what?”
“Electronics. Jewelry. A gold ring.”
“My mother’s wedding ring?”
“We’re checking.”
The room tilted.
I gripped the edge of the desk.
Officer Daniels softened his voice.
“There’s more.”
I hated that phrase.
“There was a storage unit key in his wallet.”
“Where?”
“Westbrook Storage. Unit 47.”
I drove there behind the patrol car, my hands tight on the wheel.
Jake’s unit smelled like dust and cheap cologne.
The door rolled up.
Inside were boxes.
My boxes.
Lamps from my guest room.
My old laptop.
A painting from my hallway.
And in the corner, sitting on a folding chair like trash, was my mother’s wooden box.
The lock had been broken.
May you like
The lid hung open.
And inside, her wedding ring was gone.
