After the funeral, once the house had gone quiet again, I began sorting through what little he had left. Clothes. Papers. A few personal items.
The pillow sat alone on a chair near the window, looking strangely out of place in the now-empty room.
Exhausted and emotionally drained, I grabbed it, planning to throw it away with the rest of his worn-out things. But as I lifted it, something felt… off.
I stopped…
One corner of the pillowcase was slightly loose, the stitching uneven — something I was sure hadn’t been there before.
Curious, I tugged at the thread.
A small folded slip of paper dropped onto the floor.
My breath caught.
Written on it was a name and an address: Daniel Crowhurst.
My pulse quickened. I didn’t recognize the name. Why would Walter hide something like this inside a pillow?
My hands shaking now, I tore the seam open wider.
What spilled out made my knees nearly give way.
Cash.
Stacks upon stacks of it — tightly wrapped, sealed in plastic, packed deep inside the pillow. There was far more than I could process at once. Hundreds of thousands of dollars, maybe more.
I couldn’t breathe.