She opened the box slowly. Inside were her father’s possessions he had on him the night he died: a pocket knife, a cell phone, handkerchief, loose change, and a wallet.

She reached for the wallet, knowing it was the most dear to him and therefore the most dear to her. Tears ran unbidden down her face. She lifted it gingerly to her lips, smelling the rich leather scent. Her nose stuffed with mucous from the tears. Not wanting to miss the memories his scent might bring, she blew it and then inhaled again.


Her father did not smoke. His truck had rolled but never caught on fire. Why did his wallet reek of smoke?

Her tears dried at this mystery. Where had her father been before he died? What if his death wasn’t an accident?

She pulled up the last number dialed on his cell. It flashed 15% battery but she ignored it. The number was hers. He had called her the day before. She pulled up the last text.

Unknown number.

It read: Saratoga 7PM

A bar? Her father didn’t drink. What was going on?

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