The Secrets We Keep #Microkey
The Secrets We Keep #microkey
It took me three days to find the key--three days of ransacking Jon’s office and his closet. It was taped to the bottom of his calculator with black tape that camouflaged it so well I almost missed it. The fact that he’d taken such pains to hide it tied my stomach in knots. He wasn’t hiding it from a burglar.
He was hiding it from me.
I’d found the statement in his stack of business mail three weeks after his death, a bill for a safe deposit box rental from a bank we didn’t do business with. Armed with his death certificate and our marriage certificate, I paid them a visit.
It took another week to gain access, but finally the bank representative accompanied me to retrieve the contents. She opened the drawer and asked if I wanted a moment alone. I declined, dumping the contents in the bag I brought with me. I sensed the secrets hidden here were something to be examined in the privacy of my own home.
I flipped through the copies of money orders first, then opened the letters. A picture fell from the top one of a blond woman standing behind a small dark-haired boy. I didn’t need DNA results to know who his father was. I had seen that crooked smile every day for the past seventeen years.
“Oh, Jon,” I sighed, and released any guilt I’d felt about killing him in that breath.