My stepmother called just as the day was folding into evening, her voice dripping with a satisfaction so sharp I could almost see the smile stretching across her face. She told me, with deliberate precision, that I would never set foot in the family beach house again—that every lock had already been changed.

The garage smelled like paint thinner, damp cardboard, and neglect. It sat a little apart from the house, attached by a breezeway with screens that banged softly in the wind. Diana had always hated it because it was too practical, too cluttered, too impossible to make pretty. My mother loved it for exactly the same reasons.

There were paddleboards leaning against one wall, garden tools hanging in careful rows, crates of holiday decorations, three folding chairs with rust at the hinges, and the cedar chest shoved behind a stack of unopened outdoor lantern boxes as though hiding it badly made the act less ugly.

I walked straight to it and put both hands on the lid.

The cedar was dry under my palms, lighter in color where time had worn the varnish. The carved border around the top edge was one my grandfather had done himself. He had made the chest for my mother before she married my father, when he still had strong hands and believed the world could be improved with wood, effort, and patience.

The brass latch was bent.

Something hot moved through me then. Not grief. Not exactly. Something closer to a clean bright fury.

“Open it,” I said.

No one moved.

I looked at Madeline. “Open it.”