She grabbed the edge of the kitchen counter to steady herself.

I looked down at the thick yellow envelope sitting between us on the laminate wood.

Inside were twenty years of medical histories, forged signatures, and private investigator reports.

It was the paper trail of my entire adult life, and every single page was a lie.

“We need to hide this,” I said, my voice barely a squeak.

I snatched the envelope and shoved it into the narrow gap between the refrigerator and the drywall.

The engine outside cut off, leaving a sudden, heavy silence in the room.

The rain beat a steady, metallic rhythm against the windowpane.

I heard the heavy thud of the SUV door slamming shut.

Then came the footsteps, slow and deliberate, climbing the wooden steps of the back porch.

“Go into the pantry,” I whispered to Rose, pointing to the slatted door near the hallway.

She didn’t move.

She stood there, her hands trembling, staring at the back door as if she were looking at a ghost.

“Rose, please,” I begged.

The doorknob jiggled.