The hospital.
June Callaway.
Eleanor Voss.
The box.
When I finished, Tasha remained quiet for a full ten seconds.
That might have been a personal record.
Then she said, “Your mother had a secret theater life.”
“Apparently.”
“With rich people.”
“Apparently.”
“And Harlan Voss has a mystery box with your name on it.”
“My mother’s name.”
“Same difference.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Tasha studied me.
“You’re scared.”
“I’m exhausted.”
“You’re scared and exhausted.”
I sat beside her.
On the coffee table, underneath a half-empty cup of tea, was the eviction notice.
PAY OR VACATE.
Seven days.
I had already used two.
Tasha followed my eyes.
“You should see what’s in the box.”
“What if it’s nothing?”
“Then it’s nothing.”
“What if it isn’t?”
“Then at least you know.”
I leaned back and closed my eyes.
“My mother didn’t keep things from me.”
