Chapter 6
I looked at the three pages on the desk.
“Yes.”
“Bad sad?”
I thought about it.
“No.”
He walked closer.
“What kind?”
I had spent millions of dollars on consultants who could not ask questions as precise as Sammy's.
“The kind where you realize you missed someone for a very long time.”
Sammy nodded as though he understood.
Then he looked at the picture of Daniel's building.
“Who's that?”
“My brother.”
“The Daniel?”
“The Daniel.”
He studied the photograph.
“You look like him.”
I almost objected.
Then I looked again.
Daniel's jaw.
My eyes.
The same crooked smile our mother used to make fun of.
“Maybe a little.”
Sammy pointed to the key.
“Does it open treasure?”
“I don't think so.”
“Then what?”
“I don't know yet.”
He seemed disappointed.
Then his attention returned to the computer screen.
“Who's Margaret?”
I followed his gaze.
The filing was still open.
“My mother.”
“Your mom?”
“Yes.”
“She worked there too?”
“I don't know.”
Sammy considered this.
Then he said something so obvious I nearly missed its importance.
“Maybe Daniel knew.”
I looked at him.
Of course.
If Daniel had built 214.
If he had investigated Hawthorne.
If he had found records involving a family trust connected to our mother—
Maybe he did know.
The unanswered question was whether he had put that information inside the blue ledger.
I picked up my phone.
This time I called Claire.
She answered immediately.
“Yes, Mr. Caldwell?”
“I need a car tomorrow morning.”
There was a pause.
“I thought you wanted the morning free.”
“I do.”
“Where are you going?”
I looked at Daniel's photograph.
“Marlowe Street.”
“Should I arrange security?”
“No.”
“Driver only?”
“Yes.”
Another pause.
“Anything else?”
I looked toward Sammy.
He was now carefully examining the brass key.
“Actually, yes.”
“What?”
“Find out whether Marlowe Community Works is open tomorrow.”
“I'll check.”
“And Claire?”
“Yes?”
“No calls during the drive.”
Silence.
That surprised her more than anything else.
“Understood.”
I hung up.
Sammy returned the key.
“Are you going to find the treasure?”
I smiled.
“Maybe.”
He nodded seriously.
“If you find gold, I still don't want money.”
“Good to know.”
“But I might want a cookie.”
“Negotiator.”
He grinned and ran out.
That evening, for the first time since my accident, I ate dinner at the long table in the breakfast room instead of alone in my study.
Rebecca was finishing her shift when she saw me there.
She stopped.
“You usually eat upstairs.”
“I usually do a lot of things badly.”
She smiled.
“Do you need anything?”
I almost said no automatically.
Then I looked at the empty chair across from me.
“Sit for a minute.”
She hesitated.
“I'm still working.”
“Then consider it a meeting.”
“That sounds suspiciously like work.”
“Exactly.”
She sat.
I told her about the letter.
Not every detail.
But enough.
When I mentioned Marlowe Community Works, her expression changed.
“You know it?”
“I've heard the name.”
“From your mother?”
“No.”
“Then from where?”
Rebecca thought.
“Sammy's school had a career day for parents last spring. One of the speakers worked with them.”
“What kind of work?”
“Construction apprenticeship programs, I think.”
The coincidence no longer felt like coincidence.
Not a conspiracy.
Nothing that dramatic.
Just overlapping lives.
Daniel had helped people learn trades decades ago.
The organization apparently still did.
Rebecca's family had remained connected to the same neighborhoods.
Chicago was enormous.
It was also, in ways that mattered, very small.
“I'm going tomorrow,” I said.
Rebecca studied me.
“To the building?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want company?”
I nearly refused.
Then I thought about Elena.
About Sammy.
About four years of distance I had mistaken for professionalism.
“Would you come?”
“If you want me to.”
“I do.”
She nodded.
“Then I'll come.”
The next morning was bright and clear.
The mansion receded behind us as the car headed toward the city.
Rebecca sat beside me in the rear seat.
Neither of us spoke much.
I watched Chicago pass through the window.
Neighborhoods I had driven through countless times but rarely seen.
Corner stores.
Schoolyards.
Apartment buildings with flowerpots on balconies.
People carrying groceries.
A man walking two dogs that seemed determined to go in opposite directions.
Life.
Not business.
Not valuation.
Not strategy.
Just life.
Marlowe Community Works stood on a quiet block between a bakery and a brick apartment building.
The photograph had been taken almost twenty years earlier, but the building was unmistakable.
Wide windows.
Weathered brick.
A painted sign above the entrance.
214 COMMUNITY WORKS.
I stared at the number.
Rebecca smiled.
“Looks like he kept the name.”
“Yes.”
The driver opened my door.
A ramp ran along the side entrance.
For some reason, that made me think of Sammy's drawing.
In case your legs are still tired.
Inside, the building smelled faintly of sawdust and coffee.
A woman at the front desk looked up.
“Can I help you?”
I gave my name.
Recognition flashed across her face.
Not the kind I was accustomed to.
Not wealth.
Something else.
“Caldwell?”
“Yes.”
She stood slowly.
“Ethan Caldwell?”
Rebecca glanced at me.
“Yes.”
May you like
The woman stared for another second.
Then she smiled.
