I turned it toward the light.
Three words appeared inside.
“DON’T BELIEVE HER.”
I read them once.
Then twice.
Then again.
Her.
Only one woman had been with Frank during those six days overseas.
Claire.
I didn’t call her.
Two days later, I boarded a plane.
As far as Claire knew, I was still at home grieving.
By the time I reached Claire’s street, I had spent the entire flight telling myself there might be an innocent explanation. Maybe the ring had been engraved years ago and I had somehow never noticed. Maybe Frank had meant someone else. Maybe grief was making me suspicious of a woman who had just lost her father. I repeated those possibilities until the taxi stopped. Then I saw Frank’s belongings inside the house, and every comforting explanation began falling apart.
When the taxi stopped outside her house, I nearly told the driver to keep going.
Then I noticed movement behind the front window.
A boy, perhaps twelve years old, was inside.
He was wearing Frank’s old baseball cap.
I recognized the ugly thing immediately because Frank had owned it for about thirty years and refused every suggestion that he replace it.
The boy was kneeling beside Frank’s open suitcase, carefully removing items from it.
My stomach tightened.
I got out and walked toward the house.
The front door stood open.
