The Light Over London(54)

“Would you like to do the honors?” he asked.

When she eased the door open, it all came back to her at once. The horrible journey home from Cumbria, furious with Simon for so many reasons and devastated knowing that she would never see her parents again. It had been a blessing, really, when they’d arrived home and Simon had packed himself off to the guest room. They’d never slept together again.

“It’s okay,” Liam said softly. “I’m right here.”

She looked up and found Liam kneeling in front of her, his hands clasping hers. “It’s just a safe.”

“But it was your dad’s.”

“Yes,” she breathed. “It was where Dad kept sensitive files on cases and where they kept my mother’s jewelry. I had to go into it after their deaths, and it felt so wrong.”

“You did what they would’ve wanted you to do. The wills were important.”

She drew in a shaky breath and nodded.

“And now we have the mystery of Iris’s box to contend with.” He nudged her gently. “You seem to be collecting mysteries, Cara.”

The safe was fuller than she’d remembered. One of her father’s colleagues had cleared out his case files, but plenty had been left behind. There was a small velvet box on the top shelf, and when she opened it, she saw a single lock of her baby hair. A file held birth and marriage certificates and photographs of her parents on their wedding day—Mum in an A-line ivory dress she’d sewn herself because she’d hated ’70s fashion so much and Dad in a plain black suit with lapels that gave away its era. And pressed up against the back of the safe on the second shelf was a scuffed wooden box.

“I think I’ve found it,” she said, but when she went to pull the box free, it dislodged a file and sent papers scattering.

“Damn,” she cursed softly. They both bent to scoop the papers up, but she stopped, lifting a yellowed document up to the light. It was an old medical record with “Iris Warren” typewritten neatly at the top, followed by her address, national insurance number, occupation (“housewife”), blood type (“B”), and allergies (“none”).

“Why would Mum and Dad have Gran’s medical records?” she asked.

“Did Iris have major surgery at some point?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Then maybe they came across the records when they were cleaning out her house.” He held up a piece of paper. “Looks like your mother’s birth certificate.”

“That’s odd.” She reached into the safe, pulled out the file of vital records her father had kept there, and shuffled until she found Mum’s birth certificate. “Why would she have two copies?”

Liam glanced at the paper in her hand. “That explains it. The one you’ve got is the short-form certificate. This one is the long-form with all of the parental information on it. Maybe she was applying for a government document that required the long-form.”

With a frown, she closed the records and slid everything back onto the safe shelf. Then she turned her attention to Gran’s box, which was sitting, temporarily forgotten, on a nightstand they’d uncovered. She ran her fingers over the wooden top. A few scratches marred the finish, but otherwise it was unremarkable—so much so she hardly remembered having seen it when she was looking for the wills.

“Are you going to open it?” Liam asked.

She stared at the box. “No. Not without her. I don’t want to give her any reason not to tell us everything.”

I don’t want to give her any reason not to explain her reluctance.

“I was dreading coming here, you know. I barely slept last night,” she said.

“And now that you’re here?” he asked.

“Everything is so sad. When Jock first told me I’d be coming with him on site visits, I was excited. I wanted to learn more about the people who owned the things we were selling. I guess I glossed over how emotional it must be for the people who are selling off their loved one’s things.”

She could feel the solidness of him next to her, surveying all of her things with an outsider’s eye.

“Do you know what I see when I look around this storage locker?” he asked.

“What?”

“A woman who’s torn. Part of her wants to believe that these are all just things, but part of her knows they’re much more than that.”

“You think I need to make a decision about what to do,” she said.

“I’m saying it’s complicated, and that’s okay. The answers to these questions aren’t always neat. Now”—he glanced at his watch—“if you want to go see Iris, we can probably make it in time for cocktails.”

Taking up the box, she went to close the safe. She paused, hand on the handle, staring at the records they’d found. On impulse, she grabbed them, stuffing them under her arm, and closed the door. She wasn’t certain why, but she wanted to have them with her.

Cara picked her way out of the storage unit while Liam grabbed the layers they’d shed. He was just about to pull down the door when she stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“I think,” she said slowly, “that it may be time to close this chapter. It’s time to start selling off the things I don’t want.”

“You’re sure?”