The last two digits were reversed.
“That wasn’t our number.”
Her face drained.
“What?”
“Our number ended in forty-seven.”
“You said seventy-four.”
She stared at the floor.
“Dad gave me the number.”
My skin prickled.
“Then maybe you didn’t speak to Dad.”
She looked up.
“I knew his voice.”
“Could someone imitate it?”
“Maybe.”
“But there was something else.”
“What?”
“He knew about the tree.”
I froze.
“What tree?”
“The oak behind Grandma’s house.”
Only four people knew what she meant.
Evelyn.
Me.
Dad.
And our cousin Michael.
When we were thirteen, Evelyn and I had buried a metal box beneath that
oak.
Inside were letters we wrote to our future selves.
Dad caught us digging.
He promised not to tell Mom.
Michael had been visiting that weekend.
He saw us too.
“Did he mention the box?”
