They climbed the narrow hall ladder together, Toby first because he knew where to step. The attic was unbearably hot, its air trapped beneath the roof like breath inside an oven. Silas had to crouch beneath rafters as Toby crossed to the loose board.
The lockbox remained where he had left it.
Toby lifted it onto a joist.
Sarah's voice floated weakly from below. “Press the back corners.”
Toby did.
Nothing happened.
Silas studied the box. He ran a thumb along the interior edge, then pushed beneath the torn felt lining. A narrow panel lifted with a soft metallic click.
Inside lay a single folded envelope.
On the front, in faded black ink, were three words.
For Sarah only.
Silas stared at the handwriting.
He knew it.
Fifteen years disappeared.
Elias had written those words.
They carried the envelope downstairs.
Sarah did not reach for it at first. She stared at the folded paper in Silas's hand as if the room had produced a living animal from the past. Toby watched his mother's face and realized she knew exactly what the envelope was. She had not simply forgotten it under the lockbox lining. She had chosen not to touch it again.
“You read this before,” Silas said.
Sarah nodded.
“When?”
“The night after he died.”
Silas remained standing. “Then read it again.”
Sarah's expression tightened. “I cannot.”
“Why?”
“Because I remember every word.”
Silas placed the envelope gently on the coffee table rather than pushing it toward her. “Then tell us.”
Sarah looked at Toby.
He did not ask to be spared.
She drew a slow breath through the oxygen tubing. “Your father wrote it before the crash. Not that exact night, but sometime after he realized someone from his old life had recognized him. He told me that if anything happened to him, I was not to assume it was an accident.”
Toby's face went pale.
Sarah reached for his hand again. “He wrote that the man who recognized him had ties to people from the old conflict. He believed if those people confirmed that Elias Cole was alive, they would not simply come for him. They would look for everyone connected to the life he had built.”
Silas's eyes had gone hard and distant.
“Me,” Toby whispered.
“Yes.”
“And you.”
“Yes.”
Silas finally sat again.
Sarah continued. “The letter told me that if he ever believed someone was following him home, he would not bring them here. He would do whatever he had to do to keep them from learning where we lived.”
Silas looked toward the window. “And the crash.”
Sarah's fingers trembled around Toby's.
“The police report said two vehicles went over the side near an overpass on Highway 58 after a collision. The other driver was dead too. I saw the name when an officer left a copy of part of the report on the table.”
Silas looked back sharply. “Who?”