My hands trembled as I stared at the glowing screen.
“Check your attic.”
I read the words over and over, hoping they would suddenly make sense. My best friend, Lina, had died seven years ago. I had stood beside her coffin. I had cried until my chest hurt. Her phone had disappeared after the crash and was never recovered.
Yet somehow, her number had texted me.
I barely slept that night. At sunrise, I grabbed a flashlight and climbed the narrow attic stairs in my childhood home. Dust floated through the air as I searched through old boxes filled with winter clothes and forgotten toys.
Then I saw it.
A small metal tin hidden beneath a loose wooden board.
Inside were dozens of photographs of me and Lina, concert tickets, friendship bracelets, and a folded letter with my name written across it in her handwriting.
My throat tightened as I opened it.
“If you’re reading this,” it began, “something happened to me before I could tell you the truth.”
The letter explained that weeks before the crash, Lina had discovered someone had tampered with her car brakes. She had been terrified and hid evidence in the attic because she trusted no one else.
At the bottom of the letter was one final sentence:
“Don’t trust your stepfather.”
And suddenly, every memory from that night came rushing back.
