It was just a generic silver key.
“Let’s think about this,” Hawk said. “Where would someone hide something that requires a key?”
“A storage unit,” Jagger said. “Or a PO box.”
“What about one of those private boxes at a bank?” I tried to remember what they were called. “Are those still a thing?”
“A safety deposit box,” Hawk said. “Also possible.”
“Could be a lockbox your mom and dad hid somewhere,” Vigo said. “Maybe they buried it or something.”
His ball bounced off the wall like the beat of a drum.
Bounce, bounce, bounce.
I sighed. “This isn’t helping.”
“We need more information,” Jagger said. “There are too many possibilities.”
“What about your parents’ papers?” Hawk asked.
“I’ve been through them a hundred times,” I said. “There was nothing about a storage unit or a PO box or a buried lockbox.”
“That you know of,” Vigo said.
The sound of his ball bouncing off the wall was almost meditative.
Bounce-bounce-bounce.
“Vigo’s right,” Hawk said. “What else is in those boxes? Besides the notes on their investigation into the money transfers?”
I shrugged. “Just… everyday stuff. Checking account statements, car repair receipts, mortgage statements. Nothing important.”
“That you know of,” Vigo said again.
“You think I missed something,” I said.
“It’s possible, isn’t it?” Jagger asked.
I thought about my parents’ papers, still in my room upstairs, and nodded. “It’s possible.”
Vigo’s ball stopped bouncing. “Let’s bring down those boxes.”
18
CASSIE
The morning sunslanted into the living room, casting soft gold light onto the wood floors. I’d gotten up early, leaving all three Hawks in Jagger’s bed to continue the methodical scan of my parents’ papers.
It had become routine in the two days since I’d played my mom’s recording: getting a cup of coffee, sitting on the living room floor with the papers spread out in front of me in familiar piles: those that didn’t seem to hold a message and those might with further study.
The Hawks would join me eventually, picking up one of the stacks that I’d already worked through, combing through the papers to see if there was anything I’d missed, something that was definitely possible after the hours — years really — I’d spent scanning the pages.
It was hard not to be disheartened. I was through all but three of the boxes, and with each day that passed I got more worried that there was no clue at all, that my mom’s strange turn of phrase in the recording had been nothing more than a verbal tic.
I’d barely remembered my mom’s voice before I’d turned on the recording for the first time. I wasn’t about to pretend I knew how she talked.
I jumped when a voice sounded from the hall.
