Beatrice had no idea how long she’d been sleeping. The apartment was dark and quiet when she opened her eyes. The clock on the stove read 5:15 p.m. It was the sound of papers rustling that snapped her awake. She pushed herself up, becoming increasingly alarmed.

“Who’s there?” she whispered into the dark room.

The front door was closed. The light in the kitchen was off. The only light was spilling out from Doris’s bedroom, along with the sound of paper being pulled from a drawer.

She jumped off the couch and raced to her aunt’s door. The closet door was open. The bottom drawer of Doris’s dresser was empty. Max was sitting on Doris’s bed, surrounded by piles of documents.

“What are you doing?” she shrieked.

Max dropped the sheet she was reading.

“Who said you could be in here?” She rushed over to her aunt’s closet and slammed the door. She spun back around, eyes darting from the stacks and stacks of papers piled on the bed to the empty drawer. She would never be able to put them back the way they’d been. “How could you? How could you do this?”

“Honey, I’m sorry, I just . . . I didn’t mean any harm,” Max stammered. “You fell asleep and, well, I got bored.”

“I’m not even allowed in this room!” Beatrice screamed. “These are her things! How could you touch her things? Get out!”

“Come on, Bea,” Max argued, backing away from the bed.

“I mean it! Get out! You can’t be here!”

Max hurried out of the room and grabbed her bag. She threw it over her shoulder and opened the front door. She turned back to Beatrice. “I’m sorry, kid! I really meant no harm. I had no idea that . . .” Max almost said more but seemed to change her mind. She stepped out into the cold stairwell and softly closed the door.

It took Beatrice over an hour and a long, hot shower to unclench her fists. She combed her hair until her scalp was raw. She put on her best sweater and wool pants. She had to see Doris.

Beatrice navigated the sterile hallways and elevators of the hospital without looking up from the ground all the way into Doris’s tiny room. The woman lying on the bed didn’t even look like her aunt anymore.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

She stood next to the bed and watched a machine move her aunt’s chest up and down rhythmically, waiting for some change at the sound of her voice. It was the first time Beatrice had tried talking to Doris since the stroke, but nothing happened.

“I didn’t know she would look through your things.”

Beatrice studied Doris’s face, half hoping it would twist with rage. Her cheekbones jutted from her gray face, and the orbits of her eyes were sunken and dark. Jowls pooled around her neck. Even her hair looked worn thin. It had only been five days, and the Doris she knew was already gone. She reached over and touched her aunt’s hand. It felt cool and still.

“It’s just that it’s been so nice having a friend. I needed a friend. I used to have friends, you know. I did. Back home.” Her voice broke as she stifled a sob. “I wish you were here to tell me what I should do.”

She stood up from the chair and wiped her tears. Doris hated to see her cry. Beatrice struggled to control herself until she could say in a clear, strong voice, “I’ll come back and see you tomorrow.”

Beatrice was waiting for the elevator when a nurse at the front desk waved her over.

“You just missed your uncle!”

“My uncle?” Beatrice repeated, and was about to say she must be mistaken when the nurse interrupted.

“Yes, not five minutes ago. If you hurry, you might catch him in the lobby. We were all so relieved to see that your aunt had another visitor.”

Beatrice frowned.

“It’s just that you seemed so young and were always alone. I hate to admit we almost called Child Services.” The nurse chuckled.

Beatrice’s blood froze in her veins. Child Services. She hadn’t considered until that moment that she was still technically a minor—a minor without a guardian. She swallowed hard and nodded.

“The timing couldn’t have been better—with your uncle, I mean. We really needed to speak with the next of kin regarding your aunt’s wishes.” The woman in the white uniform glanced up at Beatrice’s face. “Oh, don’t worry about it, hon. You just pull yourself together, okay? Your uncle took care of everything.”

“What uncle?” she wanted to shriek, but she was too terrified to stand there for one minute longer. The elevator dropped her off at the lobby, and she rushed through, half hoping and half terrified she would catch a glimpse of this “uncle.” There was no one but an old woman in a wheelchair. She was crying.

Beatrice practically ran all the way back to Doris’s apartment. Her aunt had never been married, at least not that she knew about. Had the hospital even asked for a marriage certificate? They had only asked that Beatrice sign the book every day. The book, she realized. Her “uncle” must have signed the book too.

When Beatrice finally made it back home from the hospital, she felt like she might need medical attention herself. Between her “uncle” and Child Services, she might just have a heart attack. She dropped her purse on the kitchen counter and pulled open the tiny fridge. She hadn’t eaten in hours, maybe days. She couldn’t remember. A can of beer was sitting next to an open box of baking soda. There was some ketchup, a slice of bread, and half a carton of orange juice. She grabbed the juice. What uncle?

With the sudden rush of sugar, Doris’s recent late nights away from home came into focus. Maybe she was seeing someone. Maybe that someone visited her in the hospital. The light was still on in her aunt’s bedroom. Piles of paper were still arranged into neat stacks on the bed. Beatrice walked over and sat where Max had been sitting and looked at them.

One stack was all typed on First Bank of Cleveland letterhead. They were carbon copies. Beatrice had struggled to type letters similar to these at work, piling sheet upon sheet with carbon paper in between. She picked up the letter that sat on top of the stack. It was dated January 5, 1962.

 Dear Mrs. Howell,We regret to inform you that your account for Deposit Box No. 815 is delinquent. If you do not remit payment, First Bank of Cleveland will have no choice but to close your account. Unclaimed property will become the ward of the State of Ohio. You have fifteen days to comply.Sincerely,William S. Thompson, Director of Audits

Beatrice raised her eyebrows, looking at the letter. Max had just been talking about this over drinks. She leafed through the stack of papers. They were all similar. Beatrice counted them up and found twenty-six. She set the stack down and puzzled over them. She couldn’t think of a reason why Doris would keep copies of things like this, especially after all of these years.

The typist signature read “DED” for the first several letters, but then it changed. The dates grew more recent as Beatrice sifted through the pile. The most recent letter was dated June 12, 1977. It was signed like all of the others by Bill Thompson. The typist was MRM. Beatrice scowled. Max?

She eyed another stack. It was a pile of steno pads, each one of them covered in pages and pages of shorthand. Beatrice squinted at the top sheet and found she could only make out every third or fourth word of her aunt’s sloppy style—“sale,” “locked,” “gold,” “Cleveland.”

She set them aside and moved on to the stack of handwritten letters. A nerve twitched up her back in protest. This was trespassing into her aunt’s private affairs, but her eyes got away from her.

My Dearest Doris,

Nothing is the same since you left. The charade at work and home is killing me. I want to shout my love from the rooftops and damn the consequences. I want to spend every night with you. One day soon we will be together, and all of the lying and sneaking around will be over. Just be patient, baby. Remember our plan and how much I love you. Meet me Saturday at our place.