Page 42 of Her Last Vow

"You should call her." Paige said it simply. Now that she had gotten over the initial nerves, it seemed she was unstoppable. "I mean, if you want to know what it opens. She probably knows."

Rachel didn't answer right away, turning the coffee mug slowly between her hands. The truth was she'd thought about exactly that more than once in the weeks since the funeral. She’d even gone so far as to look up Eve's name in the bureau database. She’d had no record of any kind. But she had, in fact, found a phone number and address.

"I've thought about it, too," she admitted.

"So do it!" Paige nudged her laptop shut, some of her earlier nervousness replaced now with something closer to confidence. "What's the worst that could happen? She doesn't know either, and you're back where you started. At least…at least you tried, right?"

Rachel looked at her daughter for a long moment, struck by how easily thirteen could sometimes see past the self-imposed obstacles that thirty-eight got tangled in. "You're annoyingly persuasive, you know that?"

"I learned it from you," Paige said, grinning now.

“Oh, God, do I know that.” Rachel laughed despite herself, and pushed back from the table before she could think of another reason to put it off. "As it turns out, little miss detective, I already have Eve’s number.”

***

Eve Whitehall lived in Poquoson, a little under an hour southeast from Richmond. She lived in a modest single-story house with white siding gone slightly gray at the edges. The yard was just a bit overgrown, but the landscaping showed that someone was paying attention and care to it. A wind chime made of mismatched silverware clinked softly along the edge of the porch as Rachel and Paige came up the drive on Sunday afternoon.

Yesterday, Rachel had told Eve on the phone only that they had something Eleanor had given them. She didn’t say what it was, just that it might be something Eve would want to see. She wasn't entirely sure why she'd held that detail back, only that some instinct told her it would land better in person than over the phone.

Eve met them at the door before they'd even reached it. The woman was thinner than Rachel remembered from the funeral. She wore a cardigan that hung loose at the shoulders despite the mild afternoon.

"Agent Gift," she said. "And this must be your daughter. I think I remember seeing you at the funeral, as well."

"Paige," Rachel said.

“Cute as a button and, if I might say so, the spitting image of your mom.”

Paige’s cheeks went slightly red and, for once, she was speechless.

"Thank you for having us,” Rachel said.

"Of course. Come on, let's sit out back. It's such a lovely evening."

Eve led them through a narrow hallway lined with framed photographs, most of them faded with age, and out onto a small back porch that looked over a yard bordered by a low wooden fence and a stretch of pine trees beyond it. She brought out a pitcher of sweet tea without being asked and poured three glasses. For a few minutes they talked about nothing important—the drive down, the weather, a hummingbird feeder Eve pointed out near the porch rail that hadn't drawn a single visitor all week despite her best efforts.

It was Rachel who finally steered the conversation toward the point of the trip. She did so gently, once the small talk had run its natural course. She reached into her bag and set the key on the table between them.

“This is why we’ve come,” she said. “This is what your sister gave me just a few minutes before she passed away.”

Eve went very still. Several emotions washed across her face in a matter of seconds. She didn't reach for it right away, just looked at it for a long moment. Finally, she reached out and took the key.

“She…Eleanor gave this to you?”

Rachel nodded and watched the play of emotions finally settle into what, to Rachel, looked like grief or recognition. Or maybe some blend of the two. "I think we should go inside," she said, and rose from her chair without further explanation.

The inside of the house matched the outside in its quiet, careful upkeep. Each small room had clearly held the same furniture for decades. There were doilies on the arms of a floral sofa, and a curio cabinet crowded with porcelain figurines. The hallway carpet was worn thin in a path down the center, and the air smelled faintly of lavender and old paper. A grandfather clock ticked somewhere out of sight, its rhythm the loudest thing in the house besides their footsteps.

They followed her through the house to a hall closet. She opened it without comment and knelt on the floor with some effort. She dug around for a few seconds before pulling out a small metal lockbox from behind a stack of old winter coats. She removed it carefully and carried it into the kitchen. There, she set it down with a care that suggested she'd handled it many times before without ever opening it.

"She gave me this two years ago," Eve said, sitting down heavily. "Before she got really sick. She just handed it to me one afternoon and told me to keep it somewhere safe. I asked what was inside, and she wouldn't say. I asked where the key was, and she said it would find its way to whoever needed it." Eve's hands trembled slightly as she pushed the box toward Rachel. "I didn't understand what that meant then. I suppose I still don't."

Eve also passed the key to Rachel. It seemed she could not bring herself to do what clearly needed to be done.

Rachel fitted the key into the lock, and it turned. It made an oddly pleasant dry, gritty sound as the lock gave way. She allowed Paige to open the lid and they all peered inside together.

Inside wasn't money, or jewelry, or any of the small sentimental things Rachel had half expected. Instead, it was a large, yellow envelope, the sort with a clasp for the top. She took it out and looked to Eve, as if seeking permission.

“Yes…go ahead.”