But every once in a while, she’d find something personal—one of her childhood drawings folded into an old photo album, a ceramic horse from her third birthday. Then, halfway through a bag that smelled strongly of cedar chips, she found it: the second key.
It was tied in a silk handkerchief, the same kind her father used to wear tucked in his blazer pocket on Sundays. This one was silver, smaller than the first, but just as ornate. No initials, but the ribbon it was wrapped in was the same color as the first—deep red, nearly maroon.