Chapter 2: What Grandpa's Name Was Doing on That Box
My hands were shaking so badly I nearly dropped the flashlight.
Behind the wall, wrapped in an old plastic sheet, was a wooden box.
Sealed shut.
With my grandfather's name written on it in faded ink.
I sat on that cold basement floor for a long time, just staring at it.
When I finally heard Grandma's car pull up outside, I ran upstairs.
The moment she saw my face, she went pale.
"You opened it," she whispered.
"Grandma — whose box is that?
Why is Grandpa's name on it?"
She didn't answer.
She walked straight past me and down the basement steps.
I followed her.
She stood in front of the box for a long moment, her hand pressed against the lid.
Then she turned to me, and her eyes were full of something I had never seen before.
Not guilt.
Not fear.
Grief.
Deep, old grief.
"I put it there the night before we lost the house," she said quietly.
"I couldn't take it with me.
And I couldn't leave it for strangers to find."
"What's inside it, Grandma?"
She looked at me for a long time.
Then she said something that made my bl00d run cold.
"The reason your parents' accident was never really an accident."
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