I coaxed his hand open gently, the way you open a child’s hand when they’re sleeping and you need to retrieve something important.
Inside was a small piece of paper. Crumpled and slightly damp. The handwriting was Andrew’s — I would have known it anywhere, that particular mix of rushed print and lazy cursive that had been on every homework assignment and birthday card for thirteen years.
Mom — open my closet for the answers. BUT DON’T TELL DAD!
I read it twice.
My chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with grief and everything to do with a cold, specific fear.
Why wouldn’t he want Brendon to know?
I smoothed the paper as carefully as I could and bent down close to his ear.
“Okay, sweetheart,” I whispered. “I promise. I won’t tell him. And I will find whatever you need me to find.”
