After Tom’s death, keeping our daughter warm meant sacrificing grocery money. Marla accepted my last eighty dollars for a used jacket, then returned the next morning desperate to reclaim it. But Abby had already discovered a brass key concealed in the pocket lining. Its tag pointed to Box 314 at Union Station, where Tom once worked. Cornered, Marla admitted he had entrusted her with the key before he died. She returned my money but warned me not to visit the station alone.
I went anyway. Inside the box was a pouch bearing my name, containing a photograph, a bank statement, and Tom’s final letter. The account showed $128,462.17—a staggering sum after treatments had emptied our savings. Then came his warning: before judging the money, I needed to learn the truth about Abby. The next line named someone I had spent eleven years trying to forget. What it meant remained unanswered.
