I had not checked the bottom of the box.
We drove back to the old house that afternoon.
My nephew had been using it as storage while the sale was being arranged.
The box was still on my daughter’s bed where I had left it.
I lifted everything out.
The note.
The photograph.
A small ribbon that had belonged to my daughter.
A dried flower I couldn’t identify.
Then I pressed my thumb against the bottom panel of the box.
It moved.
There was a false bottom.
Beneath it was a single folded piece of paper and a small brass key.
I unfolded the paper.
It was a receipt — from a law office.
Dated eleven days before the trip.
Clara had consulted a lawyer.
And the lawyer’s name was still printed clearly at the top of the page.
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The law office had changed hands twice since Clara had walked through its doors.
The original partner, a man named Aldrich, had retired fourteen years ago to a small town three hours north.
It took Harlow two days to find a phone number.
She called him while Daniel and I sat at the kitchen table and listened to her side of the conversation.
“Mr.
Aldrich, my name is Harlow.
I’m a private investigator working on behalf of a client whose wife consulted your office approximately forty years ago…
Yes, I understand the time…
