My flashlight beam caught a corner of white paper sticking out from behind a wooden support beam near the floor. It was wedged tight between the fir framing and the exterior cedar siding.
I knelt on the concrete, my right knee throbbing from the cold floor. I reached into the gap, my fingers brushing against rough wood until I felt the paper.
It was a torn scrap, rough at the top as if it had been ripped from a larger ledger sheet. The paper was damp, smelling of grease and rain.
I held the flashlight closer to read the handwriting. It was my grandfather’s neat, draftsman script.
“For the daughter they tried to erase,” I read aloud.
Jake leaned over my shoulder. His finger stopped tapping against his leg.
“What does that mean?” he asked.
I did not answer. I stared at the ink, which had run slightly in the damp air.
From the yard, we heard the sharp slam of a car door, followed by the sound of tires spinning on the wet gravel.
