I looked at the window, where the reflection of my own face stared back against the black glass of the Indiana night. Emily had married me three years ago in the backyard, near the dried rosebushes, wearing a simple white dress and laughing as the wind caught her hair. She had looked so honest under that afternoon sun.
Now, the silence of the living room felt like a physical weight.
I turned the page over, looking for any other explanation, but the back was blank.
I carried the box into the kitchen and set it under the bright fluorescent light of the ceiling fixture. Beside the letter, the box contained three thick manila folders bound with a vintage green rubber band.
I snapped the rubber band off and spread the papers across the yellow formica table. They were bank statements, spanning two years, from an account I had never seen before.
