She frowned. “Dad didn’t lock his drawers.”
“Exactly what I thought.”
But here it was—locked.
Suddenly, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Had it always been locked? Or had he done it recently? And why?
I searched Martin’s favorite jacket in the closet. Inside the pocket, I found the keys.
Back at the desk, Jane followed quietly. “You don’t have to open it right now.”
But I did. Something told me it mattered.
With trembling hands, I slid the key in. The lock clicked.
Inside was a neatly tied stack of letters. Dozens of them.
My heart pounded. Who writes letters anymore? And who had Martin been writing to?
I picked one up, turned it over, and froze.
The name written there—I hadn’t seen it in over 50 years.
Dolly.
My younger sister. The one I hadn’t spoken to in decades.
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.
Martin and Dolly? No. That wasn’t possible. He would have told me. He told me everything. Didn’t he?
I opened the first letter. My hands shook as I unfolded it.
The first line stole the air from my lungs:
