“Who are you?”
The man sighed like he’d been waiting for this day.
“Name’s Harold,” he said. “I’m the groundskeeper. Been here twenty-three years.”
Then he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small manila envelope. The edges were worn, like it had been handled too many times.
He held it out.
“He told me to give you this,” Harold said. “If you ever came asking.”
My hands went numb.
“How would he—”
Harold’s gaze didn’t waver. “He planned.”
I took the envelope like it might burn my fingers.
It was heavier than paper should be.
Inside, I felt something hard.
A key.
I opened the flap with shaking hands. A folded letter slid out, along with a small plastic card and a metal key taped to it. On the card, written in unmistakable handwriting—the handwriting that used to label every toolbox and drawer in our garage—were three words:
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