It wasn’t a stone.

It was a rusted iron box, its lock broken open by the bulldozer’s blade.

Inside, wet papers were turning to pulp.

But there was something else gleaming in the light.

I leaned down, reaching my hand into the cold clay.

My fingers brushed against cold metal.

I pulled it out.

It was a heavy, silver pocket watch with the Mercer crest engraved on the back.

The hands were stopped at exactly four o’clock.

But my grandfather had died in a hospital in Richmond, and his watch had supposedly been lost decades ago.

I turned the watch over in my hand.

The back of the casing had been scratched deeply, as if by a nail.

There were three letters carved into the silver.

I wiped the mud away to read them.

*W. B. M.*

William Bellamy Mercer.

A name that wasn’t on any family tree I had ever seen.

My phone lit up again in my hand.

It was a call from Warren Bellamy’s number.

But Warren was supposed to be in custody.

I pressed the talk button and held it to my ear.