Jonathan arranged for police to inspect those items with appropriate authorization.
That evening, I watched through a secure video connection from my hospital room as an officer opened the storage basket beneath our staircase.
Inside were old gift-wrapping supplies, notebooks, a worn stuffed rabbit, and Lily’s faded purple backpack.
The officer carefully unzipped its inner pocket.
Tucked between an old drawing and a school photograph was the blue folder.
I covered my mouth as he lifted it out.
It contained copies of financial documents, correspondence bearing my name, and a handwritten page I immediately recognized.
If I begin doubting myself, remember that asking questions was not wrongdoing. I saw what I saw, and I have a right to understand it.
I’d written those words in my car after meeting Rebecca.
The memory returned with surprising clarity—not because everything suddenly made sense, but because I remembered my determination to protect the truth before fear convinced me to abandon it.
