Lucy waited until the white van disappeared beyond the cemetery gates, then turned Rose’s framed photograph over and pressed her thumbnail beneath one corner of the cardboard backing.
A tiny brass key had been taped inside the frame.
“Mom told me not to touch this unless Dad tried to get rid of us,” she whispered.
The words landed harder than anything Arthur had said beside the grave.
Rachel moved closer to her sister, shielding the key from the relatives still drifting toward their cars, while six-year-old April kept one hand locked around mine.
I asked Lucy what the key opened.
“A box at your house,” she said. “Mom put it there the last time we visited.”
I stared at her, trying to understand how my dying daughter had managed to prepare for this while pretending everything was normal around me.
“She made us promise,” Rachel added. “We weren’t supposed to tell anyone unless Dad said he didn’t want us.”
Arthur had not merely said it.
He had announced it in front of more than 200 mourners, less than an hour after their mother was lowered into the ground.
I placed the key in my coat pocket and led the girls toward my car without telling anyone what they had revealed.
My anger was still there, but it had changed shape.
At the grave, I had wanted to strike Arthur.
Now I wanted to understand what Rose had feared enough to hide from him.
The girls sat together in the back seat during the drive across Savannah, with Lucy holding the photograph upright between them.
April leaned against Rachel and fell asleep from exhaustion before we reached the first stoplight.
Lucy watched every vehicle behind us as if she expected the white van to return.
“Did your father ever search your things?” I asked.
