than I had cried in years.
Part 3
The pounding on my front door the next morning dragged me out of exhausted sleep.
I opened it looking half-dead.
Mrs. Rhode’s lawyer stood outside holding a dented metal lunchbox.
Rain dripped from his umbrella.
“What do you want?” I asked flatly.
His expression looked uncomfortable.
“Mrs. Rhode left additional instructions.”
He held out the lunchbox.
“For you alone.”
I stared at it for a second before taking it slowly.
Inside sat a plain envelope with my name written across it in
