At first light, Margaret drove to Juniper Street with a crowbar, a flashlight, and the plastic bag holding the note. She ducked under the orange tape, pried loose the plywood over the door, and stepped into the Wren House for the first time as its owner. Dust hung in the gray morning light. The fireplace stood at the center of the far wall, its brick stained by decades of smoke, and beside it the plaster had been patched at some point with a rectangle of newer material that did not quite match the rest.

Somebody had wanted her to leave that wall alone. Which was precisely why she set the flashlight on the mantel, fitted the crowbar into the seam of the mismatched patch, and pulled. The plaster came away in chunks, revealing a hollow space framed by old studs. Inside, wrapped in oilcloth gone stiff with age, sat a flat metal box and a leather satchel. Her heart pounded as she lifted them out. The satchel was heavier than it looked. She unbuckled it with trembling fingers, and when she saw what was inside, she understood exactly why Dean Mercer had pretended he didn’t want this house.