“What did he put in it?”
“He packed it himself.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“I don’t know all of it.”
“You know some.”
“Yes.”
I waited.
Wade pressed his lips together.
I almost laughed.
“There it is again.”
“What?”
“Randall gives me a box from the grave, and you still decide which doors I’m allowed through.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Then tell me.”
“He left records. Things he wrote. Some personal items.”
“What personal items?”
“I don’t know.”
“Wade.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You’ve been lying for a year.”
He absorbed that without protest.
I turned the key in my fingers. The brass was tarnished near the teeth, as if Randall had carried it.
“There’s another page,” Wade said.
I looked into the box.
Beneath where the key had rested was the final sheet of Randall’s letter.
I had not realized there was more.
