Edna pressed her palm harder against the pantry trim. “This was my kitchen,” she said, her voice shaking. “Walter and I built this house in 1961. Franklin was born in the back bedroom.” My mouth fell open. Nobody had ever mentioned it, not once in fourteen years. Edna slid her fingers along the bottom of the frame, found a loose strip, and pried it free with a trembling thumbnail.

Behind it sat a small tin box wrapped in a faded handkerchief. Edna lifted it out and held it against her chest. “I hid this the week the bank took everything,” she whispered. “Franklin never knew.” Then tires crunched on the gravel outside. Through the window, I saw Frank’s truck pull in, followed by Barbara’s car. Edna’s face went pale. “Sarah,” she said, “I think they followed us.”