Page 73 of Unbound

I skid to a stop when I see Sybil on the floor, her eyes glassy and unfocused as she stares down at a piece of paper gripped in her hand.

No. Not a piece of paper. An envelope.

“Sybil?”

I take a cautious step toward her, not really sure how to proceed. I know how to make sure she eats. How to keep her hydrated. Get her to sleep. But dealing with emotions isn’t something I’m good at.

If I can’t even face my own, how in the hell can I help someone else face theirs?

I have to try anyway. Not only because she helped me in the very same way a few short minutes ago, but because I can’t stand the look on her face right now. I want Sybil to be happy. Smiling.

Preferably, at me.

“What’s wrong, Snoopy?” I go to my knees at her side, reaching out to gently pull the envelope from her hand. The paper is old and brittle. Each end has a strip of yellowed tape barely clinging to the edge. “What is this?”

Sybil reaches out, her hand shaking as she turns the envelope over in my hand. “It’s from my dad.”

“Okay.” I go to my ass on the carpet, stretching my legs out as my back rests against the side of the bed. Once I’m seated, I scoop Sybil up, bringing her to my lap before tucking her against my chest. “Is this something he wrote to you when you were little?”

I didn’t intend for Sybil to feel like she had to share something with me because I shared something with her. I don’t want this to be tit for tat between us, because I’m not sure I’ll always be capable of holding up my end of that sort of bargain. Grief is an elephant I can only manage small bites of at a time.

Otherwise, I choke.

“No.” Sybil’s voice is rough. “I don’t know what it is.”

That surprises me. Sybil has always seemed as comfortable as one can be discussing her father’s death. I got the impression talking about and remembering him was something she enjoyed. So it’s confusing she would hang onto this for twenty-six years without opening it.

But with her next breath, Sybil offers an explanation. One that pulls the air from my lungs.

“I just found it.” She motions to the drawer sitting at her feet. “It was taped to the bottom.”

What?

Reaching forward, I grab the drawer and flip it over, finding bits of tape fused to the dried wood.

“I couldn’t get the drawer to go back in, so I pulled it out to see why.” Sybil lifts her eyes to my face. “It was because the envelope had come loose and was keeping it from sliding on the center rail.”

I stare down at the yellowing edges, my eyes fixing on the stamp placed in one corner. It’s faded, but still legible enough to make out the three primary words. One of them being a name I’ve seen before.

Shelley for Senate

I knew Sybil believed our parents’ deaths might be linked. She wouldn’t have gone to the lengths she has if she didn’t. But I was still skeptical. Still couldn’t understand how a politician from two hours away who I’d never heard of would have had any sort of connection with my mother.

Obviously, I was wrong.

“We have to open it, Walker.” Sybil’s voice is soft. “I can do it by myself if you don’t want to⁠—”

“I want to.” I don’t know why, but I want to find out what’s inside. Need to know why in the hell my mother had an envelope with Sybil’s dad’s name on it.

“Are you sure?” Her hand comes to grip mine, fingers holding tight so I can’t open the flap. “I know this is hard for you, and I don’t want you to be sad.”

I don’t want to be sad either. I’ve actually spent decades avoiding it.

I thought that was what I was doing, anyway. Now I’m not as sure. Now I’m afraid I was just prolonging it. Stretching it so thin it could carry on forever.

Releasing the envelope, I lift my hand to her face, tracing the softness of her flushed cheek. “I’ll be okay.”

Three words I’ve never said. Not since my mom died. Because I genuinely never thought I would be okay again. Fine, yes. Okay? Never.