I screamed because for one terrible second, my mind refused to understand what my eyes were seeing.
Inside the wooden box was a stack of photographs tied together with a faded blue ribbon, an old bus ticket sealed inside a plastic sleeve, and a small velvet pouch resting on top of a folded letter.
But it was the photograph lying faceup that made the room tilt beneath me.
It showed me at seventeen.
Not the polished school portrait my mother had kept on the mantel for years. Not some faded group picture from a yearbook. This photograph had been taken from a distance. I was standing at the bus station, one hand gripping the handle of my suitcase, the other pressed against my mouth as I cried.
Behind me, half hidden behind the corner of the old brick station, stood Thomas.
He had not left.
He had watched me go.
My knees weakened so badly I had to clutch the edge of the kitchen table. The attorney, Mr. Calloway, reached out as if to steady me, but I pulled back.
“What is this?” I whispered.
His expression changed. The strange smile faded, replaced by something more careful. Almost regretful.
“Mrs. Whitaker—”
“Don’t call me that yet.” My voice came out sharper than I intended. “Tell me what this is.”
He looked at the box, then back at me.
“Thomas asked me to deliver it after the funeral. He said I was to tell you those exact words before you opened it.”
“You said I walked into his trap.”
