Several photographs.
A worn red bandanna.
And a wooden box no bigger than a loaf of bread.
Lucy stood still.
Mara covered her mouth.
On each envelope, Owen had written a number.
Eight birthdays.
Mara picked up the bundle.
Her hands began trembling.
“Why eight?”
Hammer answered.
“He didn’t know how long you’d want letters.”
Mara looked at him.
“He thought twelve was old enough to decide whether you wanted the rest of the story.”
Lucy touched the envelope marked 5.
“I’m eight.”
Hammer nodded.
“Means four belong to you already.”
Lucy looked toward Mara.
“Can I open them?”
Mara’s eyes filled.
“Not all here.”
Lucy nodded.
She understood more than most adults gave children credit for.
Then she reached toward the little vest.
It was black leather but had no Iron Saints colors.
No club insignia.
Only a small patch on the chest.
A rook chess piece.
Beneath it:
LUCY.
The girl pressed both hands against it.
“Daddy bought this?”
“He designed it.”
Hammer said.
Mara looked sharply at him.
“You knew?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Since before the final ride.”
She turned toward the locker.
“All of this was here?”
“Most.”
“What do you mean most?”
“The letters were here.”
“The vest.”
“The recording.”
“The birthday packages changed.”
Mara stared.
Hammer explained.
“Every year, I put something in here.”
“Your birthday?”
Lucy asked.
He nodded.
“Your fifth was supposed to be the first one delivered.”
Mara went still.
The rain-soaked package.
She remembered.
Everyone could see it.
Hammer did not need to say more.
Mara’s eyes lowered.
“What was in it?”
“A wooden horse.”
Lucy’s head lifted.
“Where is it?”
Hammer walked to another locker.
Opened it.
Inside sat several wrapped packages.
Some damaged.
One old box stained from water.
He removed it.
“The club found it in your trash the next morning.”
Mara closed her eyes.
Hammer continued softly.
“I dried what I could.”
Lucy looked toward her mother.
Mara seemed smaller suddenly.
“I thought…”
Her voice broke.
“I thought they were trying to make themselves feel better.”
Hammer nodded.
“I know.”
“You could have told me.”
“Yes.”
“You should have told me.”
“Yes.”
The answer angered her.
“Stop agreeing with me.”
Hammer almost smiled.
“What would you rather I do?”
“Fight.”
“I did enough of that when I was younger.”
Mara looked at him.
“You let me be wrong.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Hammer glanced toward the recorder.
“Because I was wrong too.”
That stopped her.