I finally lifted the lid.
Patricia watched me without saying anything.
Inside were several envelopes, a small black notebook, a photograph, and something that looked like an old luggage tag.
Everything had been arranged carefully.
Nothing appeared to have been thrown inside casually.
I picked up the notebook first.
Its cover was worn, and the corners had started peeling.
There was no name written on it.
Just a small date in blue ink.
I opened the first page.
My stomach tightened.
It was my name.
Claire.
Underneath it were several dates.
Some were from months earlier.
Others were from the four weeks Elora had stayed in my home.
I turned another page.
There were notes about my working hours.
The time I usually left.
The time I returned.
The days I went shopping.
Even the afternoons when I visited friends.
I stopped reading.
"Patricia, what is this?"
She leaned forward.
"I was afraid you'd ask me that."
I looked at her.
"Why would Elora be writing down my schedule?"
Patricia rubbed her forehead.
"I don't know everything. But I saw her keeping notes."
"Where?"
"At your house."
I stared at her.
"You've been inside my house?"
"Only when you invited me over. Remember when I brought those flowers?"
I remembered.
It had been during the second week of Elora's stay.
Patricia had stopped by with a small bunch of flowers from her garden.
We had spoken in the kitchen for a few minutes.
Elora had been in her bedroom.
"She was writing something when I came in," Patricia continued. "When she noticed me, she closed the notebook."
I looked down at the pages.
My handwriting wasn't there.
Elora's was.
I recognized it immediately.
Her letters were neat and slightly rounded.
I had seen her write birthday cards for years.
There was no question.
These notes belonged to her.
I turned another page.
Monday.
Claire leaves at 8:05.
Returns around 6:10.
Tuesday.
Claire has an appointment after work.
Expected home later.
Wednesday.
Claire usually stays home.
I felt my throat tighten.
There were more entries.
Some included little marks beside the dates.
Others had short comments.
I couldn't understand why she needed this information.
"Did she ask you to help her with something?"
Patricia shook her head.
"Not exactly."
"What does that mean?"
She looked toward the front window.
Then back at me.
"Elora came to see me before she moved into your house."
I stopped turning the pages.
"When?"
"Several days before she called you."
I felt something cold settle in my chest.
"She visited you?"
"Yes."
"Why didn't she tell me?"
Patricia looked uncomfortable.
"She asked me not to."
I put the notebook down.
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
Elora had called me in tears.
She had told me she broke her leg and couldn't manage alone.
I had believed every word.
I had driven to her house.
I had carried her bags.
I had prepared a bedroom.
I had changed my routine for four weeks.
And now Patricia was telling me that Elora had been making arrangements before she ever asked for my help.
"Why did she come to you?"
Patricia took a breath.
"She wanted to know whether you were still living alone."
I frowned.
"What?"
"She asked about your house. Whether you still worked full-time. Whether you had changed your schedule."
I looked down at the notebook again.
The dates suddenly seemed much more important.
"Did she tell you why?"
Patricia shook her head.
"Not at first."
I picked up the small photograph.
It showed the inside of a room.
At first, I couldn't identify it.
There was a wooden shelf.
An old filing cabinet.
A narrow door.
And a wall covered with faded wallpaper.
The photograph had been taken from an angle that made the room look almost hidden.
I turned it over.
There was writing on the back.
One sentence.
Ask Claire about the old room.
I read it twice.
Then I looked at Patricia.
"What old room?"
She didn't answer immediately.
Instead, she reached into the shoebox and removed the old luggage tag.
It was made of dark leather.
A number had been written across the front.
214\.
I turned it over.
There were no names.
No address.
Nothing else.
"What is this?"
"I think it belongs to a storage facility," Patricia said.
"Which one?"
"I don't know."
I placed it beside the photograph.
My head was beginning to hurt.
There were too many questions.
Too many things that didn't fit together.
I opened the next envelope.
Inside was a folded sheet of paper.
It was addressed to Elora.
The handwriting was unfamiliar.
At the bottom was a signature.
I didn't recognize the name.
But I recognized one phrase in the middle.
Your children must not discover where the original papers are being kept.
I looked up.
"Patricia, what papers?"
She shook her head.
"That's what I've been trying to understand."
I sat back.
For the first time, I felt angry.
Not because Elora had kept something private.
Everyone had secrets.
I understood that.
I was angry because she had involved me without telling me.
She had made me believe she needed help with her recovery.
Perhaps she did.
But apparently, there had been another reason for choosing my home.
I looked at the notebook again.
There was a date beside one entry.
The day Elora first asked me whether I would be home all afternoon.
Beside it, she had written three words.
Patricia is ready.
I felt my fingers go cold.
"Patricia."
She looked at me.
"What happened that afternoon?"
She lowered her eyes.
"I think that's when Elora started moving the things she had been hiding."
I stared at the old photograph.
Then at the number 214.
I had invited Elora into my home because I believed she had nowhere else to go.
But the shoebox suggested she had arrived with a plan.
And somehow, that plan involved me.
Click here to continue reading: PART 6: My Neighbor Finally Explained Why Elora Had Visited Her Before Calling Me, and It Had Nothing to Do With Her Broken Leg
I Thought My Marriage Was the Only Thing My Ex-Husband’s Family Had Taken From Me, Until His Mother Needed My Help
Part 5 of 20
