I scroll further—find another from two months before he died. This one’s even stranger. “I miss you,” it says. “But she can’t know. Not yet.” My brain flips through every possible “she”—me, our daughter Emily, maybe even my sister Grace, who lives two streets over.

I call Emily—voice trembling—but there’s one thing she still doesn’t know: I haven’t told her why I’m really upset. She just hears the quiver and assumes it’s grief. I nearly spill everything, but chicken out. What if I’m wrong? What if this is just some mistake, some scammer preying on old accounts?