The postmark was clearly visible.
July 29.
Eight days earlier.
I felt a slow pressure build behind my ribs.
“Did you open any of these?”
“One.”
He stared at the floor.
“I know I wasn’t supposed to.”
“You’re not in trouble.”
Silas looked up.
“It said she remembered the song she used to sing when I couldn’t sleep.”
His voice became smaller.
“I remember a song, but I don’t remember her face.”
I glanced around the room again.
On the shelf stood a framed photograph of a young woman holding a baby wrapped in a green blanket. She had light brown hair like Silas and the same serious gray eyes.
Someone had turned the photograph toward the bed, as though the person sleeping there might want to see it.
“Does your grandmother know you found this room?”
“I think so.”
“What makes you think that?”
“She moved the key.”
“Was it somewhere else before?”
“In the blue sugar bowl.”
He paused.
“After I opened the letter, the key disappeared. Then I found it behind the apron.”
Silas moved toward the window.
“I heard someone in here three nights ago.”
“What did you hear?”
“Talking.”
“Could it have been your grandmother?”
“One voice was Grandma.”
“And the other?”
He looked at the photograph.
“A lady.”
I stood and checked the window. It faced a narrow backyard crowded with overgrown lilac bushes. The latch was old, but secure. There was no obvious second entrance.
“Did you see the woman?”
“No. Grandma made me go upstairs.”
