about the house and money, but about caring for me at all. The next morning, someone pounded on my door. I opened it half-dead with exhaustion. Mrs. Rhode’s lawyer stood there holding a dented metal lunchbox.
“What do you want?”
“Mrs. Rhode left additional instructions,” he said. “For you alone.”
He held out the box.
“Actually, she left you one thing.”
Part 3
I took the lunchbox because I had no idea what else to do. Inside was an envelope with my name written in Mrs. Rhode’s shaky handwriting and
