“No.”
“How do you know?”
“I repaired wood for 45 years. That sound came from inside the mattress.”
We flipped it over and found a tightly sewn seam with uneven stitches.
“Aria did this,” I said. “She always pulled the thread too tight.”
I cut the stitching, reached inside, and pulled out a wooden box coated with dust.
Inside were several photographs, a letter from Gwen, a birthday card, and two folded notes.
The photographs showed me beside a woman from work. In one, my hand rested on her arm. In another, we were walking into a café.
I understood exactly how they appeared.
