Chapter 2 - The Suitcase With His Father’s NameDarius Bennett arrived home eleven minutes later.
He knew something was wrong before he removed his coat.
The mansion was too quiet.
Usually Malik would come running when he heard the front door.
“Malik?”
Nothing.
Darius placed his keys on the entry table.
“Estelle?”
Still nothing.
Then he heard movement near the back hallway.
Estelle appeared.
The old wooden box was gone.
Her expression was composed again.
“Mr. Bennett.”
“Where’s Malik?”
“I thought he was upstairs.”
Darius frowned.
“He isn’t answering.”
“I haven’t seen him recently.”
That was when the basement door shook.
THUMP.
Darius looked toward it.
Estelle did not.
That was the first thing he noticed.
“Malik?”
Another thump.
Darius hurried down the hallway.
Estelle stepped into his path.
“The basement lock sticks sometimes.”
He stopped.
“Why would Malik be downstairs?”
“I don’t know.”
Darius stared at her.
Something in her face was wrong.
He moved past her.
The basement door was locked from outside.
His stomach dropped.
“Why is this locked?”
Estelle said nothing.
Darius opened it.
“Malik!”
A small voice answered from the darkness.
“Dad!”
Darius ran down.
Malik stood beside an overturned metal rack.
His face was wet with tears.
He ran into his father.
Darius dropped to his knees and held him.
“What happened?”
Malik could barely speak.
“Ms. Estelle put me down here.”
Darius looked toward the stairs.
Estelle stood at the top.
“What?”
“He saw me moving a box,” she said.
Her voice was almost irritatingly calm.
“Excuse me?”
“I needed a few minutes to explain.”
“You locked my nine-year-old son in a basement?”
“I made a mistake.”
Darius rose.
“A mistake?”
Estelle’s eyes moved past him.
Toward the suitcase.
Darius followed her gaze.
He froze.
The luggage tag was facing upward.
DARIUS J. BENNETT.
He stared.
“I haven’t seen that since I was seventeen.”
Estelle stepped down one stair.
“Leave it.”
Darius looked at her.
“Why?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Then why are you afraid of it?”
“I’m not.”
Malik pulled his father’s sleeve.
“She was scared when I told her.”
Estelle’s jaw tightened.
Darius noticed.
He approached the suitcase.
“Don’t.”
One word.
Too fast.
Too sharp.
Darius stopped.
For twelve years Estelle had worked for him.
Before that, she had worked for his father.
She had stood beside the family at funerals.
She had helped care for his wife during the final months of her illness.
Darius had trusted her with house keys.
Bank deliveries.
His son.
Now she was telling him not to touch a suitcase bearing his own name.
“Go upstairs,” Darius said.
Estelle remained still.
“I said go upstairs.”
“Darius—”
He had not heard her call him by his first name in years.
“Now.”
She looked toward Malik.
Then the suitcase.
Finally she turned.
Darius waited until her footsteps disappeared.
Then he crouched beside Malik.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Did she hit you?”
Malik shook his head.
“She pulled me.”
Darius took out his phone.
He called 911.
Malik stared.
“Are the police coming?”
“Yes.”
“Is Ms. Estelle going to jail?”
“I don’t know.”
Malik whispered, “She’ll be mad.”
Darius took his face gently.
“You listen to me.”
Malik looked at him.
“You never have to protect an adult who scares you.”
Malik nodded.
Darius glanced toward the suitcase.
Its lock was brass.
Old.
He remembered it now.
His mother, Lillian, had bought it for him before a summer program in Virginia.
He had used it twice.
Then it disappeared.
He had assumed it was lost during a renovation.
He touched the handle.
Something was wrapped around it.
A faded blue ribbon.
Darius stopped breathing.
His mother used to tie blue ribbon around things she wanted him to remember.
Birthdays.
School awards.
Boxes of photographs.
Malik noticed his expression.
“What?”
“My mother did that.”
“Grandma Lillian?”
Darius nodded.
Lillian had died eighteen years earlier.
He reached for the suitcase lock.
It would not open.
“Dad.”
Malik opened his palm.
A small brass key rested there.
“I found this underneath it.”
Darius stared.
The key fit the lock perfectly.
Before he could turn it, footsteps sounded above them.
Darius looked toward the staircase.
“Estelle?”
No answer.
He ran upstairs.
The hallway was empty.
The front door stood open.
May you like
Estelle Ward was gone.
So was the wooden box she had taken from his study.
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