Every Sunday, My Daughter Left a Painted Rock on Her Late Father’s Grave—Then One Morning, They Were All Gone Except One, Hiding a Tiny Brass Key and a Folded Note

rocks were the one thing I knew you would come back for.” She glanced toward the table. “I hated myself the moment I picked them up, but I couldn’t think of another way to make sure you’d read the note.”

“Who are you?” I said.

“A genealogist. I worked for Ian.”

The floor seemed to tilt. I gripped the edge of the table.

“Worked for him how?”

“Ian hired me continue reading …