Providence by Jamie McGuire Page A

fingertips grazed the spines of my father’s books. I pulled a few of them out and looked behind them, knocking on the wall they stood against. I crawled under his desk and felt for anything abnormal.
    When I found nothing, I returned to the walls, the cabinets, and then the bookcase. I went over them all again, trying to see them a different way, to touch them differently, to appraise them for anything that seemed out of place. As my patience waned, so did my objectivity. I began plowing through the cabinets as I had before, slamming them shut and muttering under my breath.
    I sat on the floor against the front of Jack’s desk and stared across the room with my elbows on my knees. The answers were here; I was missing something.
    I lifted my chin in interest when my father’s favorite painting caught my eye. I scrambled to my feet and reached under the edges of the large frame. Determined, I reached closer to its center, knelt down and peered under it, and even pulled it a bit from the wall. I didn’t see anything remarkable, so I reached up blindly, hoping to find something that didn’t belong. There was nothing.
    I stomped in anger. “DADDY!”
    I looked around the room with my hands defiantly on my hips, blowing my bangs from my face. There were four other paintings in the room. I rushed each one, mimicking the sweep I’d just done with the larger painting. I ripped the fourth one off the wall and searched the backside of the frame. Looking at the now-empty wall, I felt another scream of aggravation coming on.
    How could there be nothing in his office? No safes, no secret doorways, no….
    Keys. There were keys in Jack’s desk. The first time I’d searched his office I assumed they were his car keys. But the car he drove himself—his Jag—was totaled. Scrap metal. What were the keys to?
    In my haste to get to the desk, my hip smashed into the corner with a loud crack. I stifled a cry and doubled over, using the desk to steady myself. I attempted to rub the sting away with one hand, and pulled open the drawer containing the keys with the other. I held the keys in my palm, trying to remember if I’d seen a lock that the keys might fit. I slowly turned my head toward the wall of cabinets. The center tower of files was locked.
    Surely, he wouldn’t be this obvious, I thought.
    I hobbled to the cabinets and tugged on the drawer. It was still locked.
    The first key only went in half way. I tried three more keys; the fourth easily slid in, but wouldn’t turn. Two keys later, I found myself cursing my father, Mr. Dawson, even the metal in my hands. I gripped the last key between my thumb and finger and closed my eyes.
    The key slid in, and I rotated my wrist. It began to turn, and then caught. None of the keys were to the locked file cabinet.
    “Damn it!” I said, throwing the keys to the floor. I kicked the cabinet, walked away, and then returned to land another kick, this time denting the bottom.
    Limping across the floor, I picked up the keys and tossed them into the desk drawer. I was done.
    I walked down the hall with my hand still pressed against my throbbing hip and stopped at the top of the stairs. Cynthia’s voice was weary as she spoke on the phone. Idling for a moment before taking the first stair, I heard her speak my name.
    “Nina’s fine. She’s upstairs, resting. What do you expect me to do? Forbid her to...? Honestly, you worry too much! She just didn’t want to be alone tonight. I heard some commotion upstairs; I assumed she knocked something over. It mustn’t have been as bad as…,” she sighed, “yes. I’ll check on her. Goodnight.”
    Cynthia turned to look up at me. I sheepishly waved, cursing under my breath for getting caught eavesdropping.
    “Are you all right, Dear?” she called.
    “I’m fine. Ran into a desk; bumped my side. Who was that?”
    She shrugged. “Was it really necessary to yell out such profanities while I’m on the phone? My friends were under the impression