Martha Grey had been in the penthouse for twelve days, and she had one more thing to do before she left.
Her suitcase was already packed and standing by the elevator, next to a small cardboard box that she had brought with her from Arizona and had kept in her room for the entire visit without opening. The box was worn at the edges, the cardboard softened by years of handling, the tape yellowed and peeling. It had been sealed for four years—since the week after Lucas's father died, since the week Martha had moved to Arizona and left her son in New York with nothing but a promise to call on the first Sunday of every month.
She had kept that promise. She had called every month for four years. But she had never opened the box.
