Three days after the funeral, I drove to the bank where Dorothea had kept her accounts for fifty years. The silver key had a number stamped on the back, and the manager led me to a vault in the basement. “Mrs. Hale gave instructions in person,” he said. “This box can only be opened by the person holding the key, and only after her passing.” My hands trembled as I slid it into the lock.

Inside lay a thick envelope with my name on it, a stack of deeds, and a small digital recorder. I pressed play. Dorothea’s voice, thin but steady, filled the vault. “Marianne, if you are hearing this, then Gavin did not come, and I have finally stopped hoping he will.” A door opened behind me. Footsteps echoed down the stairs, and a familiar voice said, “I knew you would come here.”