A Stranger Left an Envelope Beside My Bed on My Sixty-Second Birthday—Then I Found His Photograph with My Son
The cash was gone.
The jewelry box was gone.
The folder of property papers had been moved from the back shelf to the front.
Some pages remained.
I couldn’t tell which were missing because I had never expected to need an inventory of my own documents.
I sat on the edge of the bed without closing the safe.
Forty-two thousand dollars had looked substantial when bundled together.
In its absence, the safe seemed absurdly small.