He pointed to the newspaper clipping. It described a break-in at a house—my house—back when Daniel was still alive. He had never told me. The intruder had never been caught. Police suspected he was searching for something specific.
“They came back last night,” Harold said grimly. “I saw the same man watching your place. Same face from years ago. That’s why I begged you not to go home.”
The ground felt unsteady beneath me.
“What does he want?” I managed.
“Whatever Daniel hid—and whatever he died trying to protect,” Harold said simply.
Pieces I never knew existed began falling into place. Daniel had always carried a quiet weight. I’d thought it was work. Maybe it was something far darker.
“We have to call the police,” I said.
“We will,” Harold replied. “But first, you need to see what he left.”
He led me around the library to a rusted storage shed. Beneath broken shelves and dusty boxes, he revealed a small metal container.
“Daniel gave this to me,” Harold said. “Told me not to open it—only to give it to his wife if anything ever happened.”
My throat tightened. “Why wait until now?”
He lowered his gaze. “Shame,” he admitted. “And I hoped the danger had passed.”