I pushed the brass key into the hole and turned it.

A heavy click echoed through the quiet room.

A small section of the wood swung outward like a miniature door.

Inside the dark recess lay a dusty leather pouch.

I pulled it out and untied the rotting string.

The first thing I pulled out was a small, black-and-white photograph.

It was a baby, wrapped in a knitted blanket with a hospital tag still on her wrist.

I turned the photo over.

Written on the back in fading ink was the name *Megan*.

“Megan?” I whispered, looking up at Claire. “Why would Megan’s baby picture be hidden in here?”

Claire looked away, her lips pressed into a tight line.

“There was a child,” Claire said, her voice barely audible over the wind outside.

I reached back into the pouch and pulled out a piece of thick, cream-colored paper.

It was a letter, but the bottom half had been violently ripped away.

I unfolded it carefully, the paper tearing slightly at the crease.

The handwriting matched the elegant script on the parchment from the study.