Evelyn didn’t argue.
She placed the wooden box on the porch and stepped back.
“Take it,” she said. “You need to see what’s inside.”
I waited until she was several feet away before retrieving it.
The box was old.
Its varnish had darkened.
One corner was chipped.
Inside was a collection of photographs, an envelope, and a small key wrapped in blue thread.
But beneath them lay something that made me forget everything else.
A USB drive.
Taped to it was a handwritten label.
JAMIE — SUMMER 2004.
I looked up sharply.
“What is this?”
Evelyn’s eyes were wet.
“Evidence.”
“Of what?”
“Something your mother and I spent years trying to bury.”
I stared at her.
“Why would my mother want to bury evidence?”
“Because the people involved were powerful.”
“What people?”
She looked past me toward Jamie.
Then her voice dropped.
“Please don’t open it in front of him.”
