A narrow folded card sat between the wooden post and the bracket.
She had written a private wish on the card, and she had wanted it to stay hidden until she left for college.
I told her the card might have been disturbed.
Her face fell.
“I didn’t want anybody else to read it.”
We went outside with a flashlight.
The card was gone.
The small compartment in the post was empty too.
Someone had taken an innocent teenager’s secret while hunting for a much older one.
Chapter 8: The First Honest Visit
Florence came to my house at six the next morning.
She stood outside the gate without her hammer.
She held a grocery sack containing two replacement mailbox hinges and a check.
I told her the postal service would have to approve the replacement location.
“I know,” she answered.
“I wanted to pay before you had to ask.”
Hazel watched from the front steps.
Florence saw her and immediately began crying.
“I’m sorry about your pink star,” she said.
Hazel crossed her arms.
“I’m more upset that you scared my dad.”
Florence accepted the criticism.
I invited her inside after making clear that her explanation would not erase the damage.
She sat at our dining table and folded her hands around a glass of water.
“I was trying to break the compartment,” she said.
“Why not tell me?”
“Because I thought somebody had already put a tracking tag inside.”
“Who?”
“Adrian’s people.”
She admitted she had seen a worker near the mailbox Wednesday afternoon.
The worker had removed the lower mounting plate, slipped something into the hollow post, and replaced the screws.
Florence believed the object had been a tracking device because Adrian used similar devices on company equipment.
She had panicked when she saw the pink envelope arrive the next day.
“I should have called you,” she said.
“Instead, you smashed the box.”
“I thought if I frightened the person watching, they would come back for whatever they planted.”
“And you might have been hurt.”
“I know.”
I asked whether Adrian had threatened her.
Florence looked down.
“He told me that if I spoke about Ruth, he would accuse my grandson of stealing from the family business.”
“Did your grandson steal?”
“No.”
She produced a photograph of a younger man holding a toolbox beside a van.
His expression was cautious, and his left wrist showed a small burn scar.
“His name is Elliot.”
She slid the image toward me.
