Sophie led us past the old boiler, which hummed and hissed in the corner.

The air down here was freezing, our breath blooming in white clouds before us.

She stopped in front of a stack of wooden crates near the far corner of the foundation.

These crates were filled with Claire’s old gardening supplies, untouched for months.

“Behind them,” Sophie said, pointing a finger.

Pierce stepped forward and carefully shifted the heavy pine crates aside.

The wood scraped against the concrete floor, the sound echoing in the empty space.

Behind the crates, the stone wall showed a small gap where the mortar had crumbled away.

It was a tight space, barely wide enough for a child’s hand.

Sophie reached into the gap without hesitation.

Her arm went in up to her elbow, her shoulder pressing against the cold stone.

When she pulled her arm back, she was clutching a parcel wrapped in dark blue wax paper.

She held it against her chest for a moment, her eyes closed.

“I kept it dry,” she whispered.

She held the parcel out to me.