She looked to be in her late 50s, wearing a dark coat and a scarf pulled high around her jaw. She moved quickly toward the mailbox at the end of the front path.
She paused for a moment, glanced back at the house, slid something inside, and turned to leave.
Something about her movement made my stomach tighten.
Before I even realized what I was doing, I was already out the front door.
“Hey!” I called. “Excuse me! Hey!”
She didn’t stop. She didn’t even react.
By the time I reached the end of the path, she had already turned the corner and disappeared.
I stood there on the sidewalk, breathing hard, then turned and opened the mailbox.
Inside was a single envelope.
No name. No stamp. No return address.
My hands trembled as I pulled out its contents—a folded handwritten note and a small black flash drive.
I read the note right there: “You don’t know what really happened to your parents. Thomas… He wasn’t who he pretended to be. If you want the whole truth, watch the flash drive.”
I read it three times. My ears rang.w
