Wyatt stands inside the doorway, leaning against the frame. “I don’t feel right about this,” he mutters. “You don’t have to help,” I tell him, shoving hangers across the rod. I understand why he doesn’t approve. I feel like a thief as I search inside pockets and shoes. If Mom walked in, she might never speak to me again. I’d be furious if I ever found her nosing through my personal items. How can I expect her to feel any different? But I can’t stop myself, and it doesn’t help that Iris is urging me on. She frets through my mind, as anxious as I am to figure out what’s up with Mom. Standing on tiptoe, I snag my finger under the lid of a shoebox on the upper closet shelf and drag it toward me. The movement causes something to slide across the bottom of the box and the rattling sound of metal against metal trips my pulse. I take the box down and pull off the lid. “Here they are!” Lifting the ring of keys, I turn to find Wyatt watching me with an expression that makes me ashamed of my triumphant feelings.
