“Where did all of these come from?”
“We don’t know yet.”
The officer pointed toward one sitting on the bottom step.
“That’s why we need you to open it.”
I picked it up.
It was heavier than it looked.
My hands were shaking.
“What’s supposed to be inside?”
The officer didn’t answer.
I dropped it onto the porch.
The ceramic piggy bank cracked open.
Coins rolled across the floor.
But then something else fell out.
I stopped breathing.
The officers immediately moved closer.
Because mixed among the coins were dozens of tiny folded pieces of paper.
Photographs.
Names.
Dates.
And one old envelope with my son’s name written across the front.
I looked at the officer.
“What is this?”
He picked up one of the photographs.
His face changed.
Then he looked at me.
“Ma’am…”
He took a slow breath.
“You need to understand something.”
“What?”
“These piggy banks weren’t brought here because your son gave Mrs. Adele his savings.”
He looked toward the street.
“They were brought here because people found out what your son did.”
I didn’t understand.
Then he handed me the envelope.
Inside was a handwritten letter.
And the first sentence made my entire body go cold.
“Oliver reminded us of something we had all forgotten.”
