in their eyes made it seem as though they blamed me for their father’s death.
I cried anyway.
Afterward, Russell’s lawyer asked me to come to his office.
When I arrived, his children were already there.
I expected to see a will or stacks of documents.
There was nothing like that.
Only a small wooden box sitting in the middle of the desk.
The lawyer looked at me, then at Russell’s children.
“”Russell left instructions,”” he said.
His daughter gave a quiet laugh.
Then the lawyer slid the box toward me.
“”He made sure you got exactly what you deserved.””
The wooden box contained only a single brass key.
But the letter beneath it made my blood run cold: “Don’t believe anyone who tells you I’m dead.”
Hours later, I unlocked a hidden house filled with photographs of me taken years before I ever met Russell.
Then I
