I turned to him.

He was looking at Neil.

Not with anger.

With recognition.

That’s when I understood the worst part: Daniel hadn’t sold the house to save Mom from debt.
He had sold it to help Neil bury whatever had been hidden there.

And Neil wasn’t the only one at the table who already knew what had been inside that box.

The marshal ordered everyone to stay seated, but by then the dinner had turned into a crime scene of frosting, broken glass, and decades of lies.

Neil finally released my mother. Daniel stepped back slowly, breathing hard, the smug control gone from his face. For the first time that night, he looked afraid.

The bearded marshal called for a team to search my car and secure the parking lot. I should have panicked, but instead a strange clarity settled over me.

Because I remembered something.

Three nights earlier, on the drive home, I had stopped at a gas station off I-95. When I came back, my trunk had been slightly open.

At the time, I blamed myself.
Now I knew better.

“I didn’t imagine it,” I said.

The female marshal turned. “What?”

“My trunk. Someone opened it at a gas station in Wilmington. I thought it had popped open.”

Neil’s eyes flicked toward the restaurant windows.