My stepmother called me at the end of the day, her voice so smug I could practically hear the smile on her lips, and told me that from now on I would never be allowed to set foot in the family beach house again because she had already changed every lock.

Too quickly.

“You know,” I said.

“I don’t.”

“You just told me everything.”

The officer stepped forward.
“If property was removed, that’s relevant.”

Evelyn added calmly,
“And potentially very serious.”

Madeline cracked.

“It’s in the garage.”

Then—worse—

“You said she wasn’t coming back. You said Dad was going to sell the house anyway.”

Silence.

Evelyn’s voice sharpened.
“Sell it?”

Too late.

The garage smelled like dust and neglect.

And there it was.

Hidden.

My mother’s cedar chest.

“Open it,” I said.

Madeline hesitated—but did it.

Inside—

Everything.

Letters. Photos. Memories.

And at the bottom—

An envelope.