Part 1 The Secret in the Pocket 002
My sister sold me a used kids’ jacket for the last $80 I had — the next morning, my 10-year-old pulled something out of its pocket that made my blood run cold.
“Eighty dollars, Jen. Not a penny less.”
My sister, Marla, snatched the winter jacket out of my hands.
“Marla, please. I only have sixty. Abby’s freezing in her old coat, and I can’t afford a new one.”
“Then let her freeze! This is an expensive jacket. My Kayla only wore it for one season.”
“You know how much we spent on Tom’s treatments. Since his funeral, I can barely pay the bills.”
Marla rolled her eyes.
“Oh, for God’s sake! How long are you going to use your husband as an excuse? I’m not a charity!”
She looked down at my worn-out purse with disgust.
“Your daughter should be grateful she gets to wear something decent after my Kayla!”
Without another word, I pulled out the last $80 I had been saving for groceries.
Marla counted the bills and tossed the jacket onto my lap with a smile.
I swear she enjoyed watching my life fall apart.
That evening, Abby threw her arms around me when she saw the jacket.
“Mommy, it’s so pretty! Can I wear it to school tomorrow?”
I kissed the top of her head.
“Of course, sweetheart.”
But the next morning, my phone rang.
Marla.
“Listen, Abby hasn’t worn that jacket yet, has she?”
Her voice sounded strange.
Almost breathless.
“No. Why?”
“Good. I mean… never mind. I’ve changed my mind. I want the jacket back.”
“What?!”
“Kayla still needs it. I wasn’t thinking yesterday.”
“Marla, I gave you the last of my money! Abby was so happy…”
“I don’t care!” my sister suddenly screamed. “I’ll give you your precious $80 back!”
I pulled the phone away from my ear.
“What’s gotten into you? Yesterday, you couldn’t wait to get rid of that jacket!”
Silence.
“Just put it somewhere and don’t touch it,” Marla finally said. “I’m coming over right now. Do you understand?”
She hung up.
I was still standing in the kitchen, trying to make sense of what had just happened, when a scream came from the hallway.
“Mom! Mom, come quick!”
I rushed toward my daughter.
Abby stood by the front door, wearing her new jacket. Her face was pale.
One hand was buried deep inside the pocket.
With the other, she held out something pinched between her fingers.
“Mom, I found this inside the jacket,” she whispered. “Oh my God… what are we going to do?”
I leaned closer to see what she was holding.
And when I finally realized what my 10-year-old daughter had found, my knees nearly gave out.
It was a key.
Not a house key, not a tiny key for a diary or jewelry box. It was long and old-fashioned, made of dark brass, with an oval paper tag looped through the top by a piece of fraying red string.
On the tag, written in blue ink, were five words.
**TOM — BOX 314 — UNION STATION**
For several seconds, the hallway seemed to narrow around me.
“Mom?” Abby whispered.
I couldn’t answer.
My husband’s name had been Tom.
And Union Station was where he had worked for almost twelve years before his illness forced him to leave.
I reached for the key, but my fingers stopped inches away from it.
“Where exactly did you find that?”
“In here.”
Abby pointed at the left pocket.
“The lining felt funny. I thought there was a hole.”
She turned the pocket inside out.
A seam along the bottom had been opened and sewn shut again by hand. Whoever had done it had used pale gray thread that nearly matched the lining.
Nearly.
“Was there anything else?”
Abby shook her head.
“Just the key.”
Then her eyes moved toward the front window.
A car door slammed outside.
Marla.
I crossed the hallway in three strides and pulled back the curtain.
My sister was hurrying up the path.
She wasn’t wearing a coat despite the January cold. Her blond hair, usually styled with almost obsessive care, had been dragged into a crooked ponytail. She clutched her purse against her side.
