Chapter 3 - The Clue in the Plastic Bag
The ICU room was eerily quiet except for the steady beep of the life-support machines. Evelyn pulled a hard plastic chair up to the side of the bed, feeling like an intruder, yet entirely unable to walk away. She reached out with trembling fingers and gently touched the tips of Lucas's cold, motionless hand.
""Lucas,"" she whispered, her voice barely louder than the hum of the ventilator. ""I don't know if you can hear me. It's Evelyn. From the silver Corolla. The nurse from the drive-thru.""
His eyelids didn't flutter. There was no sudden spike on the heart rate monitor. Just the mechanical breathing that wasn't really his own. Tears welled in Evelyn's eyes as she looked at his scraped knuckles. These were the hands that had passed five-dollar bills to Rosemary. The hands that had carefully held a birthday cupcake in the freezing September wind.
In the corner of the room, sitting atop a metal locker, was a clear plastic belongings bag stamped with the local sheriff department's seal. A tag hanging from the drawstrings read: PATIENT BELONGINGS – MILLER, L.
Driven by an irresistible need to understand the boy who had haunted her mornings, Evelyn stood up and walked over to the bag. Through the cloudy plastic, she could see the salt-stained gray hoodie, a pair of worn denim jeans, and a cracked leather wallet. Tucked beneath the clothes was a water-damaged brown leather notebook, its edges frayed and swollen from melted snow.
Evelyn glanced toward the hallway. The nurses at the central station were busy charting, their backs turned. She knew opening patient belongings was a violation of protocol, but this boy had no advocate, no parents, and no voice. If he died on this table, his secrets would be buried with him.
She loosened the plastic drawstring and slid the notebook out.
The leather was stiff and smelled of old paper and damp cedar. Evelyn turned the front cover. Written on the inside flyleaf in precise, neat cursive were the words: Things I owe. Things I can never repay.
Her heart skipped a beat. She turned to the first page. It was filled with dates, times, and amounts.
Sept 12 - $4.85 - Vanilla Latte - She looked tired today. Double shift probably.
Oct 03 - $4.85 - Vanilla Latte - It was raining. She smiled at the drive-thru lady.
Nov 18 - $4.85 - Vanilla Latte - Car had a flat tire last week. Glad she got it fixed.
Jan 14 - $4.85 - Vanilla Latte - Freezing cold. Kept the heat on in the Honda so her coffee wouldn't get cold before she got it.
Page after page. Four hundred and twelve entries. Every single morning accounted for down to the penny. At the bottom of every page was a running total of the money spent, meticulously deducted from what appeared to be paychecks from a local auto repair garage. He had been spending nearly a quarter of his weekly wages just to buy her a latte.
Why? The question screamed inside her skull.
Then, she turned to the very last page of the notebook. Tucked into a small pocket inside the back cover was an old, folded newspaper clipping from fourteen years ago. The paper was yellowed, brittle, and cracked along the creases.
Evelyn unfolded the clipping carefully. The headline, printed in bold black ink from the Bangor Daily News, dated August 14, 2012, made her knees buckle:
May you like
TRAGIC HIT-AND-RUN ON ROUTE 1A CLAIMS LIFE OF YOUNG MOTHER; DRIVER UNIDENTIFIED
Beneath the headline was a photograph of a smiling, dark-haired woman in her late twenties holding a toddler in her arms. The woman had the exact same striking gray eyes as the boy lying in the bed.
