Chapter 16 - The Suspicious Box
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The delivery truck had barely pulled away from the curb before James stepped out onto the front porch. A plain cardboard package sat on the welcome mat, completely unmarked except for our street address printed on a white thermal label. There was no return address. No sender name. Nothing to indicate who had paid to drop it on our doorstep.
"James, wait!" I called out, reaching for the door handle. "Let me see what it is."
He immediately put his hand up, his tall frame blocking the doorway. "Don't touch it, Sarah. Step back inside with Emma."
"It's just a package, James. It's probably something I ordered online—"
"You didn't order anything," he said quietly, his eyes fixed on the brown box. "And after everything your sister put us through, we don't open unknown packages."
My heart did a familiar, nauseating flip. Lauren. It had been weeks since her dramatic outburst, weeks since the police had been called to clear out her belongings from Mom's house after the college fund scandal. The fear hadn't left my chest; it had simply buried itself deeper into my muscles.
James pulled out his phone and dialed the non-emergency police line. Forty minutes later, Officer Vance arrived. He used a pair of heavy gloves and a tactical scanner before carefully slicing through the thick packing tape on the porch step while James and I watched from behind the screen door.
"It's clean, folks," Officer Vance said, tipping his cap back. "No hazards. No threats. Just personal items."
When the officer left, James carried the open box inside and placed it on the kitchen island. I approached it slowly, my hands trembling. Inside lay a single layer of tissue paper. When I pulled it back, my breath caught in my throat.
Lying in the center was a hand-knitted red stocking. Across the plush white cuff, the name Emma was stitched in delicate, sweeping golden thread.
I recognized every single loop of the yarn. My grandmother had made it in the final months of her life, her arthritic fingers working tirelessly so her great-granddaughter would have something handmade for her very first holiday. Mom had stored it safely at her house, waiting for Christmas. But when Lauren burned her bridges, she had stolen it out of Mom's hallway closet on her way out.
Underneath the stocking lay a small, folded index card. I picked it up and unfolded it.
I wanted her to have one thing from me that wasn't ugly.
There was no signature. No apology. No demand for money. No veiled threat. Just that single, hollow sentence written in Lauren's sharp cursive.
May you like
I stood there in the quiet kitchen, holding the note in one hand and the soft wool in the other. James watched me silently, waiting to see if I would break.
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