Free Guilty by Norah McClintock

half an hour and then invite her to come and take a look. I don’t know why I bothered. It never worked.
    â€œWhere did you get the idea that shoving things out of the sight is the same thing as tidying up?” she always said.
    Now I know.
    My poor dad. He probably just wanted to get everything out of sight.
    I sigh. I start to close the closet door. Then I decide to do something nice for a change.
    I go back down to the kitchen. I take a box of green garbage bags and a roll of masking tape. I dig around in a drawer and find a felt pen. I go back upstairs and I start to fold and sort.
    I put all the long-sleeved sweaters in one bag and label it long-sleeved sweaters . I put all the blouses in another bag and label it blouses . I work my way through slacks, jeans, workout clothes, T-shirts, blazers, scarves, every category of clothing you can think of. I keep everything separate and label everything neatly so that my dad knows what’s what and can make decisions about what to do with it. Finally the only things left are…underwear stuff. I don’t even want to touch the things. They’re all tiny and lacy, and call me a pig, but I can’t help thinking what I’m thinking. I scoop everything, all of it, into a bag, seal it and set it aside without labeling it. Out of sight…
    I take all the bags out into the hall and set them in a row where my dad won’t be able to miss them. Then I go back to close the closet door. In fact, that’s just what I’m doing when I see something hanging out of one of the drawers that line the bottom half of one wall. I pull the drawer open. Jeez, more underwear. I go back out into the hall, unknot the underwear bag, bring it back and scoop the things into it. Before I reseal it, I start to go through all the drawers. Might as well make sure I got everything.
    I pull open drawer after drawer.
    Empty.
    Empty.
    Empty.
    Empty.
    More underwear. Thongs, mostly. She could have opened a lingerie store with all the stuff she had.
    Empty.
    Empty, and kind of stuck. I slide this particular drawer back and forth a few times. Yeah, definitely stuck. Maybe warped. I try to pull it open again, and this time it sticks for good. I can’t open it all the way, and I can’t close it.
    I get down on my hands and knees. Something is definitely blocking it.
    So I pull out the drawer under it. I pull it right out of its frame. Then I reach under the stuck drawer to see if I can figure out what’s blocking it.
    It’s some kind of paper. It probably slipped out and got wedged in there. I pull at it, but it doesn’t come out. It takes a moment to work it free. Finally, I have it. It’s an envelope, all crunched at one corner thanks to the drawer opening and closing on it until it jammed.
    I toss it aside and go through the rest of the drawers. When I’m satisfied I’ve emptied everything, I retie the lingerie bag and put it back in the hall. Then I pick up the envelope, close the closet drawer and head to my room. I’m about to throw the envelope on my dresser when I get curious. What if Tracie was hiding it? What if there’s something in there she didn’t want people to see—like… Hey, maybe the envelope contains incriminating photos of Tracie in some of her tiny, lacy lingerie.
    For a minute, I can’t decide if that’s a reason to open the envelope or a reason to burn it. I mean, do I really want to see…?
    I unseal the envelope and pull out what’s inside. It’s a piece of paper. It doesn’t feel like photographic paper, but still, I only peek at it through one half-closed eye.
    I’m relieved.
    And, I admit it, disappointed.
    It isn’t a photo of Tracie.
    It isn’t a photo at all.
    It’s some kind of bill from what looks like a handyman. Then I remember how my dad is as bad as me when it comes to his things. He’s always shoving stuff into drawers and then forgetting where he put