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

almost four years ago.”

Rachel took a slow, careful breath, the way one might approach a wounded animal.

“It’s not about another family, Megan. It’s about you.”

“You know my name.”

“I’ve known it for four years,” she said quietly.

“What does that mean?”

“My mother’s?”

“Ian hired me almost four years ago.”

I frowned.

“Hired you continue reading …