Anniversary cards. Boarding passes from Paris. A concert ticket stub from the first show we went to after we got engaged. A Polaroid of us in the backyard the summer after Dad bought the house, both of us sunburned and laughing, his hand on my waist like it belonged there forever.
At the bottom of the box sat a small velvet case.
My pulse jumped stupidly. For one wild second I thought it might be the missing crystals from the dress, or some other betrayal artifact, or proof that he’d stolen more than I knew.
I opened it.
Inside was the simple silver compass necklace my father gave me on my twenty-first birthday. I’d thought I lost it years ago.
There was a folded note beneath it in Grant’s handwriting.
Kept this safe because you always lose the things that matter when you’re moving too fast.
I sat down on the floor with the box beside me and the necklace cold in my palm.
Because some part of him had once known me carefully.
And some part of me had once trusted that to mean something.
A knock sounded at the front door.
I wiped my eyes, stood, and went to answer it.
No one was there.
Only a package sitting on the mat.
No return address.
My heartbeat kicked.