me, then removed the photograph from the wall.
Behind it was a yellow envelope taped to the frame.
“Daniel sent this to me twelve years ago,” he said.
“He made me promise not to open it unless a woman with your name ever came to this house.”
My breath caught.
Arthur turned the envelope over.
Written across the front, in my husband’s unmistakable handwriting, were six words:
“For my wife—when she finds Arthur.”
“Open it,” I said.
Arthur held the envelope toward me.
“It belongs to you, Helen.”
Hearing my name made my knees weaken again.
I sat on the edge of his sofa while he placed the envelope in my hands.
“How did Daniel know I would come here?”
“I don’t know.”
“You kept this for twelve years without opening it?”
“I gave him my word.”
The paper tore unevenly because my fingers would not stop trembling.
Inside were
