He forced a grin.
“You know Mom. She hid things everywhere.”
That part was true.
Mom once kept emergency cash inside an empty coffee can.
She once stored her passport in the freezer for reasons no one understood.
But Greg’s hands were trembling.
And when he walked past me, I smelled stale cigarette smoke.
Greg had quit smoking twelve years ago.
Friday night, I was lying awake at the hotel when Vanessa sent me a text.
Whatever you do, don’t unplug it.
That was the entire message.
I wrote back.
The freezer? Why?
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Returned.
Then nothing.
Vanessa, what’s going on?
No answer.
I barely slept.
I kept hearing Mom’s voice.
The freezer is full, Bethie.
Whatever happens, don’t let anybody throw away my soup.
Saturday morning, I drove to the house before seven.
The sky was gray.
The roses Mom had been trimming when she died were still half-finished beside the house.
