When she finally stopped crying, the world had not changed. The concrete pillars of the garage still stood. The fluorescent lights still buzzed. Her phone still sat in her purse, silent because no one was going to call and ask if she was okay.
She wiped her face, took a shaky breath, and opened the brown envelope.
Inside was the iron key—rusted, heavy, old, the kind of key that belonged to a door you could imagine swelling shut in winter.
And beneath it, a folded page of Richard’s stationery.
Peggy’s hands trembled as she opened it.
The handwriting was familiar. Precise. Controlled. Richard’s hand had always looked like his mind: careful, disciplined, unable to be rushed.
Peggy, this is yours now. Go there as soon as you can. You’ll understand everything once you arrive. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you before, but they were always watching, always listening, always looking for ways to challenge anything I tried to do. Trust me one last time, my darling.
All my love always,
Richard.
Peggy stared at the words until they blurred.
Trust me one last time.
After what he’d just done to her, the request felt obscene.