The lock on the chest was simple, but my hands shook so badly it took three tries to open it. It groaned as the lid lifted, revealing layers of yellowed lace and moth-eaten wool. I dug through the fabric, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
At the bottom, beneath a heavy wool coat, was a metal biscuit tin, rusted at the edges. I recognized it. She used to keep her sewing needles in one just like it. But this one was taped shut, wrapped in layers of masking tape that had turned brittle with age. I peeled the tape away, the sound loud in the quiet room. Inside wasn’t money or jewelry, but a stack of envelopes bound with twine. The handwriting on the top letter made my blood run cold.
Read also
Top Articles
