But the letter wasn’t gratitude.
Richie came out onto the porch behind me, squinting against the light.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“It’s from Mr. Whitmore.”
I passed him the letter. He read it in silence, his lips barely moving.
“My dear girl,
If you’re reading this, I’m no longer here.
This is something I’ve been hiding for 40 years. In my yard, under the old apple tree, a secret is buried, one I’ve been protecting you from.
You have the right to know the truth, Tanya. Don’t tell anyone about this.
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