Chapter 5 - WHAT RYAN WAS LOOKING FOR
Police reached my apartment before I did.
The lock showed no damage.
Ryan had used a key.
That frightened me more than forced entry.
Inside, drawers were open.
Closet emptied.
Mattress lifted.
Kitchen cabinets searched.
Nothing expensive appeared missing.
He had not come to steal.
He had come to find something.
“What would your mother have left you?” Detective Marissa Lane asked.
I stood in the doorway.
“Everything she owned.”
“That isn’t what I mean.”
Neither did I know.
Mom left clothing.
Photographs.
Medical bills.
A small insurance payment that disappeared almost immediately into debt.
Boxes.
So many boxes I had never opened.
After she died, I could barely function.
Then I started working double shifts.
Grief became something I stored beside winter coats.
Detective Lane asked:
“Did Ryan ever enter this apartment before?”
“Not with permission.”
I stopped.
Memory.
Three months earlier, my kitchen window had been open when I came home.
I blamed myself.
Two months earlier, my bedroom drawer had been slightly crooked.
Again, I blamed myself.
How many warnings had I explained away?
Ethan stood in the hallway, not entering until I invited him.
Detective Lane noticed.
So did I.
We searched the boxes.
Grace’s uniforms.
Christmas decorations.
Tax files.
A folder marked ST. MATTHEW’S.
Inside were meeting records.
Copies of complaints.
A letter to William Caldwell.
And photographs.
One showed my mother standing outside St. Matthew’s with a much younger Douglas Mercer.
They were arguing.
Another showed Ryan.
Maybe seventeen.
He stood beside his father.
So yes.
Ryan had seen my mother before.
Maybe he remembered me too.
Then I found an envelope with my name.
Mom’s handwriting.
Inside:
Ivy,
If Douglas Mercer ever contacts you, do not give him the red notebook.
I looked around.
“What red notebook?”
Detective Lane asked:
“Have you seen one?”
“No.”
We searched again.
Nothing.
Then I remembered my mother’s recipe box.
Grace wrote everything in notebooks.
Recipes.
Phone numbers.
Reminders.
She had one little red book she carried for years.
After she died, I gave several kitchen items to Lena because I couldn’t stand seeing them.
I called her.
“Do you still have Mom’s recipe box?”
“Of course.”
“Is there a red notebook inside?”
Silence.
“Actually…”
My heart jumped.
“There was.”
“Was?”
“Your mom asked me to keep it.”
The room went silent.
“What?”
Lena lowered her voice.
“She gave it to me herself about two months before she died.”
I nearly dropped the phone.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“She made me promise.”
“Where is it?”
Another pause.
“I moved it last week.”
“Where?”
“To my office.”
Lena worked at the Cook County clerk’s records division.
Before I could respond, she whispered:
May you like
“Ivy, someone broke into my office last night.”
The red notebook was gone.
