Marjorie’s garden.
My mother-in-law had a small cedar box buried under the rosemary in her backyard, where she kept her own mother’s wedding ring and a letter she’d never mailed.
She’d shown it to me in her last month, from a wheelchair on the patio, with the morning sun on her face.
“Brian doesn’t know about this box. Brian doesn’t know about a lot of things. You’re the only one who sits with me, Rachel.”
Two weeks before my arr*st, when the detectives first came to the office and I saw the way Nicole wouldn’t meet my eyes, I made copies of everything I could reach.
The original vendor setup form for “Meridian Supply Partners.”
The authorization log from the bank portal.
Three months of my own calendar, printed.
And the visitor sign-in sheets from Marjorie’s h*spital floor, which I’d photographed every evening out of habit because I was the kind of person who kept records.
