Chuckling, she says, “At least you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”
I wipe my nose on the sleeve of my shirt and blow out a hard breath. “Thank you, Slo. I absolutely hate what you just said, but thank you. You’re the only person who doesn’t tiptoe around me like I’m made of glass.”
“You’re my best friend. I love you more than people in my own family. I would cut a bitch for you. Don’t ever forget it.”
I can’t help but laugh.
“Are we good to hang up now?”
“Yes,” I say, sniffling. “We’re good.”
“And are you going to march next door and get your freak on with that fine piece of manhood?”
“No, but my vagina thanks you for your concern.”
“Okay, but don’t complain to me when the next guy who asks you out has genital warts and killer halitosis.”
“Thank you for that vote of confidence.”
“You’re welcome. Talk tomorrow?”
“Yep. Talk then.”
“But call me before then if you accidentally slip and fall on Kage’s enormous pe—”
“Goodbye!”
I hang up on her, smiling. It’s only with Sloane that I can go from sobs to laughter within the space of one minute.
I’m lucky to have her. I have a sneaking suspicion that all these years she’s been more for me than just a best friend and a shoulder to cry on.
I think she’s been saving my life.
The doorbell rings, distracting me from my thoughts. I grab a tissue from the box on the coffee table, blow my nose, run a hand over my hair, and try to pretend like I’m a functioning adult.
When I get to the front door and look through the peephole, there’s a young guy I don’t recognize standing there with a white envelope in his hand.
When I open up, he says, “Natalie Peterson?”
“That’s me.”
“Hi. I’m Josh Harris. My dad owns the Thornwood Apartments over on Lakeshore.”
I freeze. I stop breathing. My blood turns to ice.
David was living at the Thornwood when he disappeared.
I manage to rasp, “Yes?”
“We did some big renovations recently—the roof, lots of interior work. Last winter was brutal—”
“And?” I interrupt, my voice climbing.
“And we found this.” Josh holds up the envelope.
Wild-eyed and terrified, I stare at it like it contains a bomb.
He looks sheepish. “Uh, my dad told me what happened. To you. I wasn’t living here then. I was with my mom in Denver. My parents are divorced, but, uh…”
Obviously uncomfortable, he clears his throat. “Anyway, this envelope was caught between the wall and the back of the mailboxes in the lobby. They’re the kind that open from the front, you know?”
He’s waiting for me to say something, but I’ve lost the power of speech.
I see my name and address on the front of the envelope.
It’s David’s handwriting.
I think I’m going to throw up.
“We’re not sure what happened. I mean, the outgoing box was pretty tweaked. There was a gap on one side where it had rusted, and I guess…I guess this just fell through the crack and got stuck behind. When we went to replace the boxes, we found it.”
He holds the envelope out to me. I recoil in sheer terror.
When I just stand there gaping at it like a crazy person, he says, “It’s uh…it’s addressed to you.”
I whisper breathlessly, “Okay. Okay. Just…hold on a sec.”
He looks left. He looks right. He looks like he’s really, really regretting ringing my doorbell.
“Sorry. I’m so sorry.” I snatch the envelope from his hand, whirl around, and run back inside, then slam the door behind me. I collapse against it, clutching the envelope and gasping for breath.
After a moment, I hear his voice.
“Do you want me to… Do you need someone to be with you when you open it?”
I have to stuff my fist into my mouth so I don’t sob out loud.
Just when you think the world is a worthless pile of meaningless shit, the kindness of a random stranger can knock you flat on your ass.
“I’m good,” I say, in a strangled voice that I’m sure broadcasts exactly how not good I am. “Thank you, Josh. You’re so sweet. Thank you.”
“Okay, then. Take care.”
I hear footsteps shuffle off, then he’s gone.
Because my knees can no longer support the weight of my body, I slide to the floor. I sit there shaking against the door for I don’t know how long, staring at the envelope in my sweaty hands.
It’s stained in a few places. The paper is dry, tinged faintly yellow. There’s a stamp in the upper right corner: the American flag. It hasn’t gone through the post office, so there’s no date stamp to indicate when David put it in the outgoing box.
But it must’ve been only a day or two before he disappeared. If it was longer than that, he would’ve asked if I received it.
And why would he mail me something in the first place? We were together every day.
I turn the envelope over slowly in my hands. Gently. Reverently. I lift it to my nose and sniff, but there’s no trace of his scent. I run my finger over the letters of my name, written in faded black ink in his precise, slanted handwriting.
Then I blow out a breath, turn it back over, slide my fingernail under the flap with its brittle, crumbling glue, and rip it open.
Into my palm slides out a heavy silver key.
8
Nat
Heart pounding, I stare at the key. It’s nondescript, completely average looking. There’s nothing unusual about it that I can tell.
I turn it over. Engraved on the other side at the top is a series of numbers: 30-01.
That’s it.
There’s no note in the envelope. There’s nothing else but this damn silver key, which could open anything from a front door to a padlock. I have no way of knowing.
What the hell, David? What is this?
After several minutes of staring at it in confusion, I rise and head to my laptop. It’s on the kitchen counter. I have to step over Mojo snoozing in the middle of the floor on the way.
I fire up the Mac and google “How to identify a key I found.”
The search returns more than 900,000,000 results.
The first page has advice from locksmiths and key manufacturers, along with images of various types of keys. I click on the images, but a quick scan reveals nothing that looks like the key in my hand. The manufacturer websites aren’t helpful, either.
I think for a minute, then turn to the junk drawer and pull it open.
An extra set of house keys is there, along with duplicate keys for the padlock to the shed in the backyard, my locker at the gym, my classroom key, my car key, and the key to the small safe in my bedroom where I keep my social security card, title to the house, and other important papers.
None of them look anything like the key from the envelope.
My first instinct is to call Sloane, but having told her not ten minutes ago that I needed to stop relying on her so much, I don’t.
I stand in the kitchen rubbing my thumb absently back and forth over the key as I think of possible explanations.