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David\u2019s face told me everything before his words did.<\/p>\n
\u201cMom\u2026 I can\u2019t find it. Any of it.\u201d<\/p>\n
That night I didn\u2019t sleep. I lay in the bed Bob and I had shared for decades, staring at the ceiling, my mind ricocheting through memories\u2014the Tuesday bank trips, his insistence on handling everything, the way he\u2019d pat my hand and say, \u201cDon\u2019t worry about the boring money stuff, Maggie. I\u2019ve got it covered.\u201d<\/p>\n
He\u2019d had it covered.<\/p>\n
All right.<\/p>\n
Thursday morning arrived cold and gray. I dressed carefully\u2014navy blazer, slacks\u2014armor, not morning clothes. David offered to come with me, but I said no. Whatever was in that box, I needed to see it first. Alone.<\/p>\n
The bank was a modern building of glass and steel. The manager, a woman in her fifties named Patricia, met me at the entrance. Her smile was sympathetic, professional.<\/p>\n
\u201cMrs. Thompson, I\u2019m so sorry for your loss. Your husband was a valued client for many years.\u201d<\/p>\n
She led me down a hallway to the vault. The boxes lined the walls like metal teeth. She used two keys\u2014hers and the one she\u2019d handed me\u2014to open box 847.<\/p>\n