My son set the box down carefully. He looked at me across the velvet. “I asked you to say you took it,” he said. “You did.” He walked out the north door. “Garrick, wait,” Christa called. He did not wait.
Bud tapped the microphone. “Booth forty-one is closed.” He held out his palm. “Your badge, Twila.” Then Elwood stepped from behind the coffee urn and stopped in front of me. He took out my key ring — nine keys and my museum badge. “These are yours,” he said. “They should never have left you.”
At the north door, Christa grabbed my sleeve. “Harleen, please. The kids.” I looked at her hand until she let go. “I always think about the kids. That is why I drove to the sheriff, not the airport.”
What the Records Say
September twenty-eighth, the museum fired Christa. October second, the prosecutor filed charges: Christa for theft, tampering, and making a false report; Twila for receiving stolen property and making a false report — the phone records put the 6:04 call on her shop line.
Eight of the eleven online buyers mailed their objects back. Sixteen of nineteen recovered. The pistol waits on a trial. Three more wait on luck, and I check them every Tuesday.
Christa is staying at her mother’s. Garrick rented a two-bedroom nearby. October second he came to my door alone. “I should have asked what it was wrapped in,” he said. “Yes,” I said. “You should have.” “Can the kids still come over?” “Every Tuesday that is not a holiday, honey.” At the bottom of the steps he turned. “Night, Mom.” That is not forgiveness yet. It is a door that is not locked.
October third I finally flew to Tucson, and Neva had saved me a slice of birthday cake in her freezer. Before I left, I zipped the inner pocket of my suitcase shut. There was nothing in it. I checked twice.
Nobody lives in my house rent-free anymore. Not my son, not his wife, and not guilt. That is my story. One zipper at midnight, one red number, and a drawer that is almost full again.