I lowered my coat.
“Yes.”
He hesitated.
“Did your mother’s name happen to be June?”
Every muscle in my body went still.
“June Callaway?”
“How do you know my mother?”
His expression told me the answer was complicated.
“She worked with my family a long time ago.”
“My mother worked in medical billing.”
“Later.”
“What does that mean?”
“Before you were born, and for several years afterward, she worked at the Meridian.”
I stared at him.
“The theater?”
“Yes.”
“My mother never worked at a theater.”
“I’m fairly certain she did.”
“You’re fairly certain?”
“Rue, I have photographs.”
The hallway suddenly seemed colder than the garage.
My mother had been dead for four years.
I knew the important things about June Callaway.
I knew she drank coffee strong enough to dissolve a spoon.
I knew she hated canned peas.
I knew she sang along badly to Smokey Robinson whenever she cleaned the kitchen.
I knew she had spent eighteen years processing hospital insurance claims and complaining about people who stapled forms in the wrong corner.
I knew she had raised me alone.
I knew she never talked about my father beyond saying he had not been ready to build a life with her.
I knew her.
Or I thought I did.
“The Meridian closed when I was little.”
“Twenty-one years ago.”
“I would remember my mother telling me she worked there.”
“You were five when she left.”
I stared at him.
“How do you know how old I was?”
Harlan went quiet.
That was the first moment I considered simply walking away.
I put on my coat.
“Tell your driver I found another ride.”
“Rue.”
“No.”
“There’s something you should see.”
“At two in the morning?”
“Not tonight.”
“Good.”
I walked toward the elevators.
“Your mother and mine were friends.”
That stopped me.
I turned slowly.
Harlan remained near Belle’s doorway.
“My mother’s name was Eleanor Voss,” he said.
“She ran the Meridian Foundation before the theater closed.
June worked with her.”
I knew Eleanor Voss.
Not personally.
Everyone in Detroit over thirty remembered her.
She had funded music programs, libraries, neighborhood playgrounds.
She had been photographed with mayors and teachers and famous musicians.
She had died twelve years ago.
“My mother knew Eleanor Voss?”
“Very well.”
“How well?”
“Well enough that my mother mentioned June in her will.”
I forgot about the elevator.
“What?”
Harlan took a breath.
“There is a box in the Meridian archive.
My mother left instructions that it be given to June Callaway if the theater ever reopened.”
“And if June was dead?”
“To her daughter.”
My hand tightened around my purse.
“You knew about this?”
“I knew a June Callaway existed.
Our attorneys tried to locate her years ago.
By then she had moved twice, and the contact information in the foundation files was decades old.”
“My mother didn’t exactly disappear.
She had a phone number.”
“I agree.”
Something about the answer surprised me.
No excuses.
No grand defense.
Just agreement.
“Our lawyers should have done better,” he continued.
“I should have done better.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because at the time, reopening the Meridian seemed impossible, and the box felt like one more unfinished obligation belonging to my mother.”
He glanced toward Belle’s room.
“I have spent the last year learning that unfinished obligations don’t disappear because you stop looking at them.”
I didn’t know what that meant.
I also didn’t want to know.
Not that night.
“I’m going home.”
“All right.”
“You aren’t going to stop me?”
His eyebrows lifted.
“No.”
That answer irritated me more than it should have.
