Her voice shook.
“That’s when I found the box.”
I sat down.
For ten years, I had believed that my son and his wife had died in a tragic accident. The police investigation had concluded that their car had left the road late at night during heavy rain.
There had been no evidence of foul play.
No suspicious circumstances.
Nothing that gave us a reason to believe otherwise.
I had accepted it because I had no choice.
I had seven children to raise.
Seven grieving grandchildren who needed me.
I couldn’t spend every day wondering whether the story we had been told was incomplete.
But now Grace was standing in front of me with a box that seemed to challenge everything.
“What else is in there?” I asked.
She pointed toward the bottom.
“There’s something else.”
I reached inside.
My hand touched something cold and metallic.
I pulled it out.
