“What do you mean don’t look?”
“He’s not here.”
I felt my stomach twist. “That’s not possible. My stepmother said—”
“I know what she said.” The man’s voice stayed low. “But he’s not here.”
I stared at him, confusion turning sharp.
“Who are you?”
The man sighed like he’d been waiting for this day.
“Name’s Harold,” he said. “I’m the groundskeeper. Been here twenty-three years.”
Then he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small manila envelope. The edges were worn, like it had been handled too many times.
He held it out.
“He told me to give you this,” Harold said. “If you ever came asking.”
My hands went numb.
“How would he—”
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