locket sprang open.
Inside, rolled impossibly tight, was a piece of paper no bigger than my pinky nail. I coaxed it out and unrolled it against my thigh.
Eleanor’s handwriting stared back at me: small, precise, familiar.
Bank of Arizona. Box 4782.
Eleanor had a safe-deposit box at the Bank of Arizona. In all our years of marriage, she’d never mentioned continue reading …
