I grabbed my phone and called the local police department. Within fifteen minutes, Detective Vance was standing in the basement. He looked at the forty-seven polaroids laid out on the washing machine.

He didn’t say anything for a long time, and honestly, that felt worse than if he had started shouting.

He took out his radio and called the station, reading off the description of the little boy on the yellow sofa.

While we waited for the dispatch to search the records, Vance reached his hand deep into the very bottom of the freezer. His fingers brushed against a forty-eighth envelope.

This one didn’t have a date. It had my name written on it in Martha’s elegant, cursive handwriting.

“Open it,” Vance said quietly.

I pulled out a single sheet of lined paper. The message was short.

“Dear Clara, I knew you would buy this place. You always wanted my rose garden. Start digging where the white roses are. What you will find there is what belongs to the people who paid me.”

Before I could even process the words, the basement door at the top of the stairs creaked open.

Heavy footsteps started descending the wooden steps.

It was David. He had a set of keys in his hand, and he looked furious.

“I knew you’d be in here snooping around,” David spat, his eyes instantly locking onto the blue envelopes spread across the washing machine. He took a step toward us.

“Get out of my way, Clara. Those envelopes are private family documents. You have no right to them.”

Detective Vance stepped in front of me, his hand resting firmly on his utility belt.

“State your name,” Vance said, his voice perfectly level.

David’s face lost all its color. He hadn’t realized a police officer was standing in the dim light behind the furnace. He took a slow step backward toward the stairs.

“I’m her nephew,” David stammered. “This is a family matter. There’s been a misunderstanding.”

“We’re going to need to verify that at the station,” Vance said, but David didn’t wait. He turned and scrambled up the stairs, slamming the door behind him.

By the time Vance and I reached the kitchen, we heard the gravel driveway spray. David’s Mercedes was speeding away, but Vance had already called in his license plate.