This was the shirt Grant had worn during his secret weekend trips to Charlotte.

I brought it under the bright fluorescent light of the kitchen counter.

My mother watched me, her breath held.

“What are you looking for, Claire?” she asked.

“Daniel called,” I said. “He told me there is something hidden in the cuff.”

I turned the left sleeve inside out.

The cuff was thick, stiffened with cheap interfacing.

I felt the fabric between my thumb and forefinger.

There was a slight bump, thin and stiff, near the buttonhole.

“Hand me the seam ripper from your sewing kit,” I said.

My mother hurried to her basket and retrieved the small plastic tool.

My hands shook as I slid the sharp point under the blue thread.

One by one, the stitches popped.

I peeled back the inner lining of the cuff.

A small, folded piece of white paper, wrapped in thin plastic, slid out onto the counter.

I carefully unwrapped the plastic.

Inside was a single sheet of heavy paper, covered in small, neat handwriting.

It was Grant’s handwriting.