“Is that yours?”
“It was.”
“When?”
“Years ago.”
Mom began pounding against the inside of the front door.
“Don’t touch it!”
Her voice was hysterical now.
“She’s sick! Daniel, you remember what she was like!”
Sheriff Cole stopped.
“What exactly am I supposed to remember, Linda?”
Silence.
Then Dad yelled something at her.
I couldn’t hear the words.
Sheriff Cole crouched beside the bag.
A deputy joined him.
For one horrifying second, I imagined drugs.
A weapon.
Something planted there to complete whatever story my parents had told.
The zipper opened.
Nothing exploded.
Nothing illegal appeared.
Sheriff Cole reached inside.
And pulled out a stack of envelopes.
My handwriting covered every one.
My name.
Their address.
Military postage.
Dozens of them.
Then another bundle.
Then another.
I stopped breathing.
Some envelopes had been opened.
Others were stamped:
RETURN TO SENDER.
Some had handwritten dates going back nearly four years.
Mr. Bennett took off his glasses.
“That’s them.”
My eyes burned.
I stepped toward the porch.
“You had my letters?”
No response from inside.
“You read them?”
Nothing.
“You knew I was alive?”
The house remained silent.
Sheriff Cole opened another compartment.
This time he pulled out a thick manila folder.
He glanced at the first page.
Then at me.
Then back at the page.
His expression changed completely.
“What?” I asked.
He stood up.
“Rachel, did you ever give your parents power of attorney over your property?”
“No.”
“Any financial power?”
“No.”
“Did you sign anything before deployment?”
“Only military paperwork.”
He handed one page to another deputy.
At the bottom was a signature.
My signature.
Except I had never written it.
My knees weakened.
“What is that?”
“A durable power of attorney.”
“I didn’t sign it.”
