“No, the girls are fine,” I said. I slid the photo and the letter across to her. “I found these under Mr. Whitmore’s apple tree.”
My mother reached for the photo. “Why were you digging in his yard?”
“He asked me to. After the funeral, I got a letter. He wanted me to know the truth.”
I watched my mother’s face as she read. I watched the color drain.
She clutched the letter. “Where did you… How long have you known?”
“Why were you digging in his yard?”
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