“Dear Mrs. Thompson, we wish to express our condolences regarding your husband’s passing. Per the terms of the safe deposit box lease, we must inform you that you are listed as the secondary holder. The box has been paid through the end of the year. Please contact us at your earliest convenience to arrange access.”

I read it three times.

We had a safe deposit box.

Bob had never mentioned it—not once in thirty-eight years.

I called the bank that afternoon. The woman on the phone was polite, professional. Yes, the box was registered to Robert Thompson, with Margaret Thompson listed as co-holder. Yes, I could access it. Would Thursday at 10 a.m. work?

Thursday. Two days away.

I spent those two days moving through the house like a ghost—opening drawers Bob had organized, staring at folders he’d labeled in his precise handwriting. Everything looked normal. Too normal. Like a stage set designed to look exactly like a life.