“Mother?” The voice was soft and unmistakable. I gripped the stair rail and looked down. Laura Beth stood in the hallway in a plain gray coat, thinner than on any video call, her eyes wide and wet. Behind her was a small boy of about seven, clutching her hand. “Mom, please don’t be afraid,” she whispered. “I can explain everything. I just never knew how to tell you.” The boy looked up at me and said in careful English, “Grandma?”

My knees nearly gave way. I had never been told of a child. Laura Beth climbed the stairs slowly and closed the door of the room full of money behind me. “It is not what you think,” she said. “Takashi passed away eight years ago. The money is not mine to keep.” Then the doorbell rang, and she went pale, whispering, “They found me early.”