“I’m sorry,” he said.
The apology was unexpected.
“For what?”
“For not telling you sooner.”
“Did Grandma ask you not to?”
“No.”
That answer made me pause.
He glanced at Mom, then back at me.
“She asked me to wait until your mother had spoken to you first.”
“She spoke to me this morning.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“She called me after you left.”
Mom looked away.
Daniel approached but stopped several feet from me, leaving space between us.
“I should have called you myself,” he said. “I kept thinking there would be a better time. Then your grandmother died, and everything became more complicated.”
“Why were you going to throw the boxes away?”
“I wasn’t going to throw them away. I wanted to move them.”
“That isn’t what Mom said.”
“I wanted to bring them to the house so we could sort through them. Your grandmother didn’t want anyone opening them while she was alive.”
“So you waited?”
“I waited.”
“And then?”
“After the funeral, I asked your mother whether she wanted help clearing the unit. She told me she wasn’t ready.”
Mom gave him a sharp look.
“I was not ready.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you go back?”
“Because the rental fees were overdue.”
I turned to Mom.
“Who was paying for the unit?”
“Your grandmother.”
“From which account?”
Mom’s mouth tightened.
“I don’t know.”
Mr. Ellis arrived before she could say more. He parked beside us, carrying a leather folder and a small camera.
“Good,” he said. “Everyone is here.”
He greeted Daniel formally, then asked to see the rental agreement. Daniel retrieved a copy from his car.
The unit was in Grandma’s name, but the emergency contact listed was Mom.
There was also a second authorized person.
Daniel.
Mr. Ellis studied the form.
“Who signed this amendment?” he asked.
Daniel pointed to a line near the bottom.
“Your grandmother.”
The signature looked like Grandma’s, but the date was from three years earlier, before her illness became severe.
Mr. Ellis photographed the document.
“Let’s proceed carefully,” he said.
Daniel led us down a corridor that smelled faintly of concrete and dust. Unit 214 was near the back, beneath a light that flickered every few seconds.
He inserted the key.
Before opening the door, he turned to me.
“Your grandmother said you should see everything before deciding what to do with any of it.”
