I picked up the silver watch beside his lamp and wound it.
Jackson watched quietly.
“Does that thing still work?”
“It loses four minutes a day.”
“Then why keep winding it?”
“Because Shaun hated it when it stopped.”
I slipped the watch into my pocket.
Next, we went into Aria’s room.
She had been nine. She loved sewing dresses for her dolls, though every stitch slanted because she always pulled the thread too tightly.
Her unfinished dollhouse still rested beside the window, its front door hanging crooked.
“Don’t touch that,” I said.
“You’ve had 40 years to fix it.”
“I know.”
My legs gave way, and I lowered myself onto Aria’s bed.
Something cracked beneath me.
Jackson looked over.
“Was that the frame?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“I repaired wood for 45 years. That sound came from inside the mattress.”
We flipped it over and found a tightly sewn seam with uneven stitches.
“Aria did this,” I said. “She always pulled the thread too tight.”
I cut the stitching, reached inside, and pulled out a wooden box coated with dust.
Inside were several photographs, a letter from Gwen, a birthday card, and two folded notes.
The photographs showed me beside a woman from work. In one, my hand rested on her arm. In another, we were walking into a café.
I understood exactly how they appeared.
But it was Clara’s handwriting on the first page that stole my breath.
“Andrew, if you’re reading this, something has happened to me. Read everything carefully. Don’t trust Gwen. There’s something you never knew.”
The note stopped there.