My breath caught. “What?”

“I made him a promise,” Frank said. “This was part of it.”

“Who are you?” I asked, my pulse racing.

He didn’t answer directly. He simply stepped back, expression unreadable.

“I’m sorry, kid,” he said, pressing a business card into my hand. “I wish your parents were here.”

Then he disappeared into the crowd as if he’d never existed.

I stood there, frozen, his words echoing louder than the organ music drifting from the living room.

Bottom drawer.

That night, after everyone left, I returned to the house. I didn’t switch on the lights. The darkness felt softer somehow.

The garage door creaked as I lifted it. The air inside was thick with oil and cedar from the cabinets Michael had built himself. My footsteps echoed across the concrete floor as I walked toward the workbench.

The bottom drawer was deeper than the others. It resisted at first, then slid open with a low groan.

Inside lay a sealed envelope with my name written in Michael’s familiar blocky handwriting.

Beneath it sat a manila folder stuffed with legal documents, letters, and a single torn journal page.

I sank onto the cold floor.

And I opened the envelope.

“Clover,

If you’re reading this, it means Frank kept his promise. I asked him not to tell you until I was gone. I didn’t want you carrying this while you still had me. Frank used to work with me, and I always said he’d outline us all…

continued on next page

For complete cooking times, go to the next page or click the Open button (>), and don't forget to SHARE with your Facebook friends.