During my husband’s funeral, an unknown number lit up my phone: “I’m alive. Don’t trust

As the last car disappeared down the rain-slicked road, the burdens of the day pressed heavily on my shoulders. The house felt vast and empty, my footsteps echoing softly against the wooden floors. Memories of Richard flashed with every corner I turned, like a ghost lingering in the spaces we once filled together. The thought of facing the children—it was too much, too soon. I needed answers first.

I made my way to Richard’s study, the room still carrying the faint scent of his cologne. The desk loomed in the dim light, a sentinel of secrets. I hesitated, my hand hovering above the drawer that was now the focal point of mystery. The image from the text replayed in my mind, and I steeled myself for whatever I might find.

The drawer creaked open, revealing a jumble of papers and stationery. I traced my fingers along the edge, feeling for the hidden compartment. My heart raced, thumping loudly in the quiet room. And then, there it was—a cleverly disguised latch. With a gentle tug, the compartment slid open.