I didn't sleep well that night.
The shoebox remained on the coffee table.
I had covered it with a folded cloth before going to bed.
But I knew what was underneath.
The notebook.
The letters.
The photograph.
All those dates.
All those questions.
I kept thinking about the day Elora had first arrived.
How carefully she had looked around the spare bedroom.
How often she had asked when I would be home.
How quickly she had changed the subject whenever I questioned her.
I had mistaken those things for embarrassment.
Now they felt like pieces of a puzzle.
The next morning, Patricia came over again.
She brought two cups of coffee.
I opened the door and let her inside.
"Did you manage to sleep?"
I shook my head.
"Not really."
She placed the cups on the table.
"I'm sorry."
I looked at her.
"I don't understand why you didn't tell me sooner."
She nodded.
"I know."
We sat down.
I wanted answers.
Not guesses.
Not another explanation about what Elora might have intended.
I wanted to know what Patricia had actually seen.
She took a breath.
"The first time Elora came to my house, she arrived alone."
"When was that?"
"Several weeks before she moved in with you."
I waited.
"She asked whether she could speak privately. She seemed worried."
"What did she say?"
"She told me she was having problems with her family."
I looked at the shoebox.
"Her children?"
Patricia nodded.
"She said there were things she couldn't discuss with them."
I thought about the photograph.
The three children standing outside Elora's house.
"Did she mention Shane?"
"Yes."
My shoulders tightened.
"What did she say?"
Patricia looked at me carefully.
"She said he had been acting strangely."
I didn't answer.
She continued.
"She was worried about him and the other two children."
I frowned.
"Worried how?"
"She wouldn't explain everything. She only said that they had been asking questions about things that belonged to her."
I looked at the envelopes.
"What things?"
Patricia shook her head.
"I don't know."
She reached for her coffee.
"She seemed frightened, but she also seemed determined."
I thought about the way Elora had behaved during her stay.
She hadn't seemed frightened in my house.
She had seemed watchful.
Always asking.
Always noticing.
I asked Patricia what else had happened.
"She asked whether she could leave a box with me."
I looked at the shoebox.
"That box?"
Patricia nodded.
"Yes."
"Did she tell you not to open it?"
"She told me not to open it unless she gave me permission or unless she was no longer able to come back for it."
I stared at her.
"Why would she say that?"
"I didn't know."
Patricia looked down.
"She said there might come a time when you would need to see what was inside."
My heart began beating faster.
"Me?"
"Yes."
I stood up.
I walked to the kitchen and poured myself some water.
I needed a moment.
When I returned, Patricia was still sitting in the same place.
"Did she say why I would need to see it?"
"Not clearly."
I sat opposite her.
"Tell me exactly what she said."
Patricia thought for a moment.
"She told me that you had always treated her better than her own children had treated her."
I looked away.
"She said she trusted your judgment."
I swallowed.
"And?"
"She said she hoped you wouldn't feel betrayed when you finally understood."
I closed my eyes.
That sentence hurt more than I expected.
Elora had known there was something I might consider a betrayal.
She had anticipated my reaction.
And she had still gone ahead.
I looked at Patricia.
"Did she tell you what she wanted me to do?"
"No."
"Did she ask you to give me the box after she left?"
Patricia nodded.
"She told me that if she returned home safely, I should wait until she had moved out of your house before bringing it to you."
I stared at her.
"That was her instruction?"
"Yes."
I looked toward the coffee table.
It was exactly what had happened.
Elora had left my house.
A few hours later, Patricia had arrived.
The timing had not been accidental.
I felt a strange sadness.
Not anger alone.
Sadness.
Because I had thought those four weeks meant we were simply helping each other through a difficult time.
Now I understood that Elora had planned the ending of her stay as carefully as the beginning.
I picked up the photograph again.
The three children were standing outside her house.
I turned it over.
The date was still there.
I asked Patricia whether she knew who had taken it.
She shook her head.
"No."
I studied the picture.
Elora was looking directly at the camera.
Her expression was serious.
Shane stood beside his brother.
Their sister was on the other side.
Nobody looked particularly happy.
I put the photograph down.
"Why did she take this?"
Patricia leaned forward.
"I think it was connected to something she wanted to prove."
I looked at her.
"Prove what?"
She hesitated.
"That her children had been involved in something before she came to stay with you."
I felt my stomach tighten.
"What kind of thing?"
"I don't know."
I was beginning to feel frustrated.
Every answer led to another question.
Patricia could tell.
"I wish I knew more."
I believed her.
She wasn't behaving like someone who enjoyed keeping secrets.
She looked as unsettled as I felt.
I opened the notebook again.
This time, I read the entries from the beginning.
There were several notes about calls.
One mentioned a conversation with a person whose name had been crossed out.
Another mentioned a visit to the bank.
Then I saw something that made me stop.
A date.
The day before Elora broke her leg.
Beside it, she had written a short sentence.
Do not tell them yet.
I read it again.
"Patricia."
She leaned closer.
I pointed to the sentence.
She looked at it.
Then she shook her head.
"I've never seen that before."
I turned the page.
There were more notes.
One mentioned a meeting.
Another mentioned a document.
The writing became harder to read toward the bottom.
But one sentence stood out.
If they ask, say nothing.
I felt cold.
Who were they?
And what were they asking about?
I looked at Patricia.
"Did Elora ever tell you that her children were pressuring her?"
Patricia nodded slowly.
"She mentioned that they wanted her to make a decision about something."
"What decision?"
"She wouldn't tell me."
I stared at the notebook.
The more I read, the less I understood.
But one thing had become clear.
Elora's decision to stay with me had not been made because she had nowhere else to go.
She had chosen my house.
She had chosen the timing.
She had even arranged for Patricia to keep the box.
I felt hurt.
And underneath that hurt was a growing fear that I had unknowingly become part of a family matter that had nothing to do with my divorce.
I looked at the clock.
It was almost lunchtime.
Patricia stood up.
"I should let you think about everything."
I nodded.
She moved toward the door.
Then she stopped.
"There's one more thing."
I looked at her.
"What?"
"Elora asked me to make sure you didn't throw anything away from the spare bedroom before you had a chance to look through it."
I went completely still.
"What do you mean?"
Patricia looked toward the hallway.
"She said there might be something there that belonged to her."
I stared at her.
The spare bedroom.
The room where Elora had spent four weeks.
The room I had planned to clean that morning.
I turned toward the hallway.
And for the first time, I wondered whether the shoebox contained everything Elora had wanted me to find.
Or whether she had left something else behind.
Click here to continue reading: PART 8: I Returned to the Spare Bedroom and Looked at Every Drawer, Every Shelf, and Every Place Elora Had Quietly Used
I Thought I Was Simply Helping a Woman Who Had Never Stopped Treating Me Like Family, But Something About Her Request Stayed With Me
Part 7 of 20
