Ethan studied her for a second.
Then turned back.
He hooked his fingers beneath the board.
It resisted.
He pulled harder.
Wood cracked.
Noah whimpered.
“It’s all right, buddy.”
Ethan tore upward.
A twelve-inch section broke away.
Beneath it was darkness.
Not subfloor.
An opening.
A hollow compartment.
Vivian whispered, “Stop.”
Ethan looked back.
“What?”
She was no longer looking at the damage.
She was staring into the hole.
And for the first time in years, Ethan saw something in his mother’s face that almost never appeared there.
Fear.
He slowly turned toward the opening again.
The compartment was deeper than he expected.
Maybe eighteen inches.
He reached down.
His fingertips touched fabric.
Ethan pulled his hand back.
Noah began crying again.
“Mommy.”
Ethan’s heart started pounding.
He grabbed the second board and pulled.
This one broke more easily.
A larger opening appeared.
Vivian stepped forward.
“Ethan, wait.”
He ignored her.
With both hands he tore another section free.
Splinters scattered across the floor.
Then he could see inside.
A pale-blue scarf.
Folded around a rectangular black case.
Ethan stopped breathing.
He knew the scarf.
Rachel had worn it constantly.
Paris.
November.
Their tenth anniversary.
They had spent nearly an hour inside a tiny store while Rachel tried to decide between two shades of blue that Ethan insisted looked identical.
She bought both.
The darker scarf disappeared sometime during the year before she died.
The lighter one was beneath the floor.
Ethan reached down.
His hands were shaking now.
Vivian came closer.
“Ethan.”
He pulled the case from the compartment.
It was a waterproof document box about fourteen inches long.
Dust covered the corners.
The scarf had protected most of it.
On top was a white envelope held in place by a faded rubber band.
One word was written across the front.
ETHAN.
Rachel’s handwriting.
Ethan sat completely still.
His son began sobbing.
“Daddy.”
Ethan looked up.
Noah had never seen him cry.
Not once.
Ethan had cried after putting Noah to bed.
He had cried in the shower.
He had cried alone in his car outside the cemetery three months after Rachel’s funeral because he could not force himself to walk toward the grave.
But never in front of his son.
Now tears were already running down his face.
Noah crawled toward him.
Ethan pulled the boy against his chest.
“It’s okay.”
“Mommy?”
“I don’t know.”
He stared at the envelope.
“I don’t know, buddy.”
Vivian bent down.