The insurance company said that because Jason had a key and had found the title, it might not be simple theft. The police said I might need a lawyer.
At 8:17 that night my phone rang. Tidewater RV Exchange.
“Mr. Dawson, my name’s Daniel, I’m the sales manager. We have your motor home.”
“I didn’t authorise any sale.”
A pause. “I’m starting to understand that. Sir — during our inspection we found something hidden inside. Under the dining booth. There’s a compartment behind a panel.”
I had rebuilt half that RV with my own hands. There was no compartment.
“What’s in it?”
“I’d rather not say on the phone. One of the items has your name on it. It’s an envelope.”
“Who wrote it?”
“I don’t know, sir. But I think you might. You need to come here now.”
I don’t remember the drive. When I got there the showroom lights were dimmed. Daniel took me through a side door into the service bay.
There she was under the fluorescent lights. Faded blue. Emily’s ceramic hummingbird still hanging by the driver’s window.
I put my hand on the door. “I thought I’d lost you.”
An older mechanic came over. “You restore this yourself? You did good work. We nearly missed it.”
He lifted the dining booth cushion. Underneath was a wooden panel that blended perfectly into the floor. Two screws. Behind it, a narrow steel box.
“I’ve never seen that before in my life.”
“There was a key beside it but the lock had jammed. We opened it.”
Daniel lifted the lid. Black-and-white photographs. An old Navy challenge coin. A leather journal. A faded road atlas. And a thick envelope sealed with blue wax.
I knew the handwriting before I touched it.
Emily’s.
Frank.
And underneath: For our trip, when you’re finally ready.
My hands were shaking. Daniel put his hand on my arm.
“Before you open that, there’s something else.”
He opened a folder on the bench. The sale papers Jason had brought in.
“The sale hasn’t gone through. There’s a problem with the title. The registered owner is Frank Dawson.”
“That’s me.”
“We know. But your son signed your name.”
I looked at the signature. It was a decent copy. He’d practised.
“We wired him twenty thousand this morning,” Daniel said quietly. “We’d already got a buyer lined up — a retired couple from Chesapeake, they put a deposit down this afternoon. When our title clerk ran it, the signature didn’t match the one on file at the DMV. A forged title is a felony in Virginia, Mr. Dawson. We’re required to report it. Our lawyer’s coming, the buyer’s coming to get her deposit back, and the police are on the way to take your statement.”
“And if I say I signed it?”
He looked at me for a long moment. “Then you’d be lying to the police. And the RV goes to Chesapeake.”
I sat down in the dining booth with Emily’s envelope in my lap.
