He looked at me.
“Did she tell you where it is?”
“No.”
His eyes dropped to the container in my hands.
“What’s that?”
“Chicken noodle.”
He stepped closer.
“Let me see it.”
“Why?”
“Just give it to me.”
His hand stretched forward.
It was shaking.
Vanessa stepped between us.
“Greg. It’s soup. Leave it alone.”
His phone suddenly buzzed.
He checked the screen.
His face drained of color.
“I have to go.”
He ran upstairs and left.
Vanessa collapsed onto the bottom step.
I stared at her.
“What is happening?”
She wiped her eyes.
“Open the soup.”
We carried the container upstairs.
Because it was frozen solid, we placed it in warm water.
Twenty minutes later, the lid loosened.
Inside was Mom’s chicken noodle soup.
Wide noodles.
Carrots.
Too much dill.
And floating near the surface was a tiny sealed plastic bag.
Inside was a brass key.
