I was sitting in the cemetery lane with the shoebox on my lap, and Liam Brennan’s gray sedan had already gone.

My fingers had grown cold around the twine.

I turned the key in the ignition.

The heater blew out damp air.

Eleven years, and I had believed it was only paper.

I didn’t open it.

I set the twine-wrapped shoebox on the passenger seat.

Rain drummed on the windshield.