They did not know what the key opened or what the card said; they would not know the specifics until later, when the story traveled the family the way stories do.

But they knew enough.

They knew that unshakeable Gene was shaking.

They knew that the little girl they had watched be diminished for three years had walked across the room and handed her step-grandmother something that had drained the blood from her face.

And I saw, on more than one of those faces, a thing I had not expected and have not entirely forgiven and have not entirely blamed them for either: relief.

Relief that someone had finally done it.