The Florence Postcards

Lily’s head remained resting against Elena’s shoulder, her eyes unfocused, a doll made of wax and compliance. Sarah backed away, her hands shaking so violently she had to shove them into the pockets of her cardigan. The sterile, white light of the dining room felt like it was bleaching the hope right out of her chest.

"I’m leaving," Sarah whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the high-end appliances.

"I think that's wise," Elena said, not looking up from Lily’s hair. "I'll call Mark and let him know you had a moment of clarity. Maybe he'll delay the filing if you go to the retreat tonight."

Sarah didn't answer. She turned and ran. She didn't head for the front door; she sprinted for the service exit in the pantry, the heavy steel door clicking shut behind her. She didn't stop until she was back in her car, the engine roaring to life before she had even buckled her seatbelt.

Logic was dead. Evidence was being burned. Mark was compromised. The only person Sarah could trust was the one version of Elena she hadn't yet destroyed: the teenager from 1999.

She drove back to the hoarder house, the headlights of her car cutting through the dark like searchlights. She didn't park on the street this time. She drove over the curb, the tires flattening Margaret’s prized hydrangeas as she pulled up to the front porch.

The house was dark, the silence of the neighborhood broken only by the chirping of crickets. Sarah tried the front door. Locked. She moved to the side entrance. Locked.

She walked around to the back, her shoes sinking into the damp earth. She looked up at the attic window. It was the only part of the house Margaret hadn't reinforced with new hardware.

Sarah grabbed a heavy garden gnome from a flower bed and threw it through the glass pane of the back door. The sound of the glass shattering was the loudest thing she’d ever heard. She reached through the jagged hole, unlatched the deadbolt, and stepped into the kitchen.

The air inside was stagnant, smelling of burnt paper from the barrel outside. Sarah ignored the debris and moved straight to the second-floor landing.

The attic door stood before her, but a new, heavy brass padlock had been installed on the hasp. Margaret had anticipated her return.

Sarah didn't look for a key. She went to the tool shed under the stairs and grabbed her father’s old sledgehammer. She returned to the landing, the weight of the metal dragging against the carpet.

She swung.

The first blow sent a shockwave up her arms, the wood of the doorframe splintering. The second blow tore the hasp clean out of the rotted timber. The door swung open, groaning on its hinges.

Sarah stepped into the suffocating heat of the attic. She didn't look for the boxes this time. She headed straight for the small alcove behind the chimney where Elena’s old desk sat, buried under forty years of National Geographics.

She shoved the magazines aside, the dust clogging her throat. She pulled open the bottom drawer of the desk, the wood swollen and resistant.

Inside Elena's old desk, she found the stack of postcards from Florence. None of them had postmarks. They were never mailed.