I found proof in my father’s files.
Someone had been sending Richard photographs of us for years.
You.
Me.
Lily.
Our house.
Our vacations.
Everything.
I couldn’t breathe.
Claire stepped closer.
“What does it say?”
She read it.
Her face drained of color.
At the bottom, Jack had written only one final paragraph.
If anything happens to me, don’t assume the cancer was the only thing that killed me.
There is a key taped behind the photograph in this envelope.
It opens Box 317 at Union Central Station.
What I found is inside.
Do not go alone.
And Emma—
If our second child is born alive, leave the city before Richard finds out.
For several seconds, neither Claire nor I moved.
Then she flipped the photograph over.
There, beneath a strip of old yellow tape, was a tiny brass key.
Stamped into the metal were three numbers.
A knock sounded at the front door.
