The wooden chest waited inside.
It was not large, but it was heavy enough that I struggled to pull it free. A brass lock secured the front. The antique key entered smoothly.
For a moment, I could not turn it.
My heart beat so hard that I heard it above the wind outside.
Then I forced my hand to move.
The lock opened.
Inside lay several bundles of letters, a leather journal, a cassette recorder, and a sealed folder stamped with the name of a private investigation firm.
There was also a photograph of me as a baby.
Carl held me in his arms.
My mother stood beside him.
On the back, in Evelyn’s handwriting, were six words:
She has your eyes, Carl.
The room tilted.
I lowered myself to the floor.
“No,” I said.
My voice sounded very far away.
I studied the photograph again. Carl’s face held an expression I had never seen—not pride exactly, and not fear, but something deeper. Something tender and terrified at once.
