Inside lay a plain gold ring, a small brass key, and a photograph of me on courthouse steps, a stack of folders in my arms. I had never seen it before. My hands went cold. “Who took this?” I whispered. Elias would not meet my eyes. “My mother did,” he said. “I have to tell you what she kept from both of us.”

Before he could say more, someone pounded on our front door three times. Through the peephole, I saw his mother on the landing in a wet gray coat, clutching a thick envelope. “Elias,” she called, her voice cracking, “do not give her that box until you hear me out.” Then she lowered her voice. “Please. It is about Marcus, and what I did four years ago.”