Page 30 of Ruthless Creatures

I think I’m going to throw up.

“We’re not sure what happened. I mean, the outgoing box was pretty tweaked. There was a gap on one side where it had rusted, and I guess… I guess this just fell through the crack and got stuck behind. When we went to replace the boxes, we found it.”

He holds the envelope out to me. I recoil in sheer terror.

When I just stand there gaping at it like a crazy person, he says, “It’s, uh… it’s addressed to you.”

I whisper breathlessly, “Okay. Okay. Just… hold on a sec.”

He looks left. He looks right. He looks like he’s really, really regretting ringing my doorbell.

“Sorry. I’m so sorry.” I snatch the envelope from his hand, whirl around and run back inside, then slam the door behind me. I collapse against it, clutching the envelope and gasping for breath.

After a moment, I hear his voice.

“Do you want me to… do you need someone to be with you when you open it?”

I have to stuff my fist into my mouth so I don’t sob out loud.

Just when you think the world is a worthless pile of meaningless shit, the kindness of a random stranger can knock you flat on your ass.

“I’m good,” I say, in a strangled voice that I’m sure broadcasts exactly hownotgood I am. “Thank you, Josh. You’re so sweet. Thank you.”

“Okay, then. Take care.”

I hear footsteps shuffle off, then he’s gone.

Because my knees can no longer support the weight of my body, I slide to the floor. I sit there shaking against the door for I don’t know how long, staring at the envelope in my sweaty hands.

It’s stained in a few places. The paper is dry, tinged faintly yellow. There’s a stamp in the upper right corner: the American flag. It hasn’t gone through the post office, so there’s no date stamp to indicate when David put it in the outgoing box.

But it must’ve been only a day or two before he disappeared. If it was longer than that, he would’ve asked if I received it.

And why would he mail me something in the first place? We were together every day.

I turn the envelope over slowly in my hands. Gently. Reverently. I lift it to my nose and sniff, but there’s no trace of his scent. I runmy finger over the letters of my name, written in faded black ink in his precise, slanted handwriting.

Then I blow out a breath, turn it back over, slide my fingernail under the flap with its brittle, crumbling glue, and rip it open.

Into my palm slides out a heavy silver key.

EIGHT

NAT

Heart pounding, I stare at the key. It’s nondescript, completely average looking. There’s nothing unusual about it that I can tell.

I turn it over. Engraved on the other side at the top is a series of numbers: 30–01.

That’s it.

There’s no note in the envelope. There’s nothing else but this damn silver key, which could open anything from a front door to a padlock. I have no way of knowing.

What the hell, David? What is this?

After several minutes of staring at it in confusion, I rise and head to my laptop. It’s on the kitchen counter. I have to step over Mojo snoozing in the middle of the floor on the way.

I fire up the Mac and google “How to identify a key I found.”