The tires of my gray Buick crunched over the wet gravel of the Oakridge driveway at half past nine. I left my nurse’s bag on the passenger seat, next to an empty paper cup from the hospital cafeteria. I had spent my morning shift in the ICU adjusting IV drips, my ears filled with the low hum of heart monitors, before driving over to my parents’ house. The kitchen door was unlocked, as it always was, but the house was silent when I let myself in.

The walk-in closet in Martha’s master bedroom at Oakridge was always kept at a precise sixty-eight degrees, a cool sanctuary away from the humid drafts of the old house. The narrow room was filled with the familiar, suffocating scent of lavender drawer liners and old wool. I stood on the second step of the folding wooden stool, reaching for the stack of heavy winter quilts stored on the top shelf. As I pulled down a dark green comforter, my fingers brushed against a cardboard shoebox tucked in the far corner, covered in a thin, undisturbed layer of gray dust.

The box belonged to a brand of Italian pumps Victoria had purchased three autumns ago, the orange designer logo on the side faded to a dull peach.

I pulled the box down, holding it against my scrub uniform, and lifted the heavy lid. Inside, tucked beneath a pair of crumpled white tissue papers, lay a small beige USB drive.

The plastic casing was hand-labeled in black permanent marker with my sister’s neat, upright handwriting: V. DO NOT TOUCH.

I held it in my palm for a moment, the plastic cool and smooth against my skin. My grandmother’s silver wristwatch sat heavy on my left wrist, its face polished and set to the exact local time. I slid the drive deep into the side pocket of my blue nurse’s uniform trousers, letting the fabric fall over it.

I smoothed down my uniform top, folded the step stool, and carried the heavy wool quilts downstairs to the hallway linen chest, my movements deliberate and quiet.