A small ridge along the bottom edge, no bigger than a fingernail. I had handled this box a dozen times and never noticed it.
I pressed.
CLICK.
The lid sprang up an inch on its own. Spools of red and gold thread rolled across my lap as the contents of the box seemed to leap out of it on their own.
I looked inside the box and realized what had happened. A false bottom had sprung open.
Inside lay a brass key and a single folded paper, written in Marianne’s careful, slanted hand.
My darling girl. I told you this box would save you. Because you haven’t received the real gift yet. Go to my house and open the cabinet in my sewing room. The brass key opens what matters.
I hurried to Marianne’s house.
Her front door stood half open. Garbage bags lined the porch, stuffed with silk and lace I recognized instantly. Gowns she had spent decades stitching by hand.
A man stepped onto the porch, carrying another bag. He looked me up and down with a curl of disgust.
“You must be the con artist,” he said. “Bold of you to show your face.”