Albert had helped sort through them.
That was where he found the quilt.
And a notebook.
And several documents.
“I didn’t know who they belonged to,” he said.
“Then why did you bring them to me?”
He reached into his backpack.
He took out a small brass key.
“I found this too.”
I stared at it.
“What’s it for?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
He shook his head.
“But Estelle wrote something next to it.”
“What?”
He looked at me.
“Your name.”
My stomach dropped.
“Martha.”
He nodded.
“That’s why I came back.”
I took the key.
It was cold against my palm.
“What did she write?”
Albert looked toward the staircase.
“I think you should read it yourself.”
Then he handed me a notebook.
That was the beginning.
Not the divorce.
Not Daniel.
Not the money.
The notebook.
That night, after Lily went to sleep, I opened it at the kitchen table.
