Mom’s lips moved as she read the paper, and then she pressed her hand to her mouth. “Gerald,” she whispered. I knelt beside her and read it over her shoulder, his careful block letters faded to brown: “Dorothy, by the time you read this, you are worth more than you ever knew, and I am sorry I kept it from you.” Her whole body shook.

Mr. Hale lowered himself onto the step beside her, a thick folder open across his knees. “Mrs. Whitaker, my father drew up the trust your husband describes,” he said. “It has sat in our files since 1981. But it carries a condition. The paper from that watch is the only key, and the trust closes at the end of this week.” He looked at me, then at the velvet box. “If Walt had sold that watch to anyone else, none of this would exist.”