Daniel cried.
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t give it to me.”
“I didn’t know where you were.”
“Mom found me.”
“I know.”
“You could’ve given it to her.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Daniel looked at the box.
Then at the floor.
And whispered the ugliest honest thing anyone had said that day.
“Because once you read it, everyone would know what I’d done.”
No noble excuse.
No protection.
Fear.
Self-protection.
Twenty-four years of it.
Ethan looked at him for a long time.
Then closed the wooden box.
He picked up the brass key.
Put it in his pocket.
And said:
“I don’t want your explanation today.”
Daniel nodded through tears.
Fair.
Then Ethan turned to me.
I braced myself.
He asked:
“Did you know?”
“No.”
Immediate.
He studied my face.
Then nodded.
I think he believed me.
Not trust.
Not yet.
Just belief.
Enough.
Mr. Feldman gave him the storage-unit key.
