Chloe drove us home to Evanston while I sat silent in the passenger seat, the letter heavy in my lap. Only when we reached the kitchen did I notice a second page tucked behind the first, along with a small brass key taped to the paper. My mother’s handwriting had grown shakier on this page, as if she had written it in a hurry.

“Rebecca, the estate is only half of what your father stole,” it read. “Go to the boathouse at Lake Geneva. Open the cabinet beneath the floor. Everything he buried is there, including the truth about the night I died.” I read the final line three times. Chloe grabbed my wrist. “Mom, Grandma died of an illness. Didn’t she?” Outside, headlights swept across our window and stopped. Someone was already in our driveway.