He brought it to the drafting table.
“I found this after Daniel died.”
I stared at him.
“How did you know he died?”
“The obituary.”
Richard opened the lid.
Inside were letters.
At least twenty.
Some sealed.
Some opened and refolded.
All addressed to Daniel Mercer.
“I wrote one every few years.”
“You kept copies?”
“Those are originals.”
I picked up the first envelope.
RETURN TO SENDER had been stamped across the front.
“He sent them back.”
“Yes.”
“Why keep them here?”
“Because this was the last place where we were still friends.”
That answer surprised me.
Ethan looked away.
I opened one letter.
It was dated seventeen years earlier.
Daniel,
I drove Larksburg this morning. The oaks are taller than either of us expected. You were right about the drainage basin. You were also right about the park, although I reserve the right to deny ever putting that in writing.
Michael starts high school next week. Ethan turned ten last month and has somehow inherited every stubborn quality I used to accuse you of having.
I know you do not want to hear from me.
I am writing anyway.
I read no further.
Not because I was angry.
Because I suddenly felt like I was listening through a door.
I folded the page.
“What’s in the box that’s for me?”
Richard nodded toward the drafting table.
“The key was supposed to bring you here.”
He moved the metal box aside.
Beneath it was a shallow drawer built into the table.
I pulled it open.
Empty.
At least it looked empty.
Then I noticed a second strip of green tape near the back.
I smiled before I could stop myself.
Of course.
I pressed it.
A false panel lifted.
Ethan laughed softly.
“Your dad had style.”
“No,” I said. “My dad had an unhealthy relationship with hiding compartments.”
Inside was one envelope.
VICTORIA was written across the front.
My hands stopped.
This was different.
Richard leaned back.
