Chapter 4 - The Box Under Lena's Bed
I took Noah home before sunrise, locked our apartment door, and sat beside his bed until he fell asleep holding the blue stuffed fox Lena had given him. When the traffic outside began to roar, I opened the cardboard box of my sister's things I'd never had the courage to sort.
There were thrift-store receipts, a birthday card Noah had scribbled on, and a pair of cheap earrings still wrapped in tissue. Beneath them lay a spiral notebook. Lena had written dates and short observations in her cramped handwriting. One entry said, WEST DOOR CHAINED AFTER 9 P.M. STAFF CLAIM DONATIONS HAVE BEEN STOLEN. Another said, BEATRICE'S OFFICE KNOWS. CALLED THREE TIMES.
I read the words twice. I remembered telling Lena to be careful when she complained about the repairs. I would regret that advice for years.
A folded copy of a maintenance request had been torn from the notebook. It described the west stairwell and warned that children slept on the second floor. At the bottom was a red stamp: CLOSED - NO ISSUE FOUND. The signature was too blurry to read.
My best friend, Priya Shah, came over with coffee. She had once worked as a case coordinator at Juniper House and had quit after the fire.
"Why didn't you tell me about the chain?" I asked.
Her face drained. "I reported it. I left because they said I'd be sued if I talked."
"Who said that?"
"Rusk. Their security director. The man who pointed a gun at you last night."
Priya brought out her own phone. She showed me a photograph taken a week before the fire: a heavy chain threaded through the west door's crash bar. Taped above it was a handwritten notice reading STAFF ACCESS ONLY. The time stamp matched Lena's entry.
"Can I use this?" I asked.
May you like
"You'll need more than a picture. They'll say it was temporary."
Before she could explain, a knock came at the door. Through the peephole I saw a delivery driver holding a white box. There was no sender's label. Inside, beneath a layer of packing paper, lay Lena's missing phone.
