P.S.: Keep the sheet music safe.
The paper creases under my thumb as I fold it. Orders, but more than that. A hand reaching past the grave.
“She doesn’t know,” I say quietly.
Browne shakes his head. “Nor should she. Penny wanted her to grow her own roots, not feel shadowed.”
He leaves soon after, footsteps fading down the porch. Through the window, I catch a last glimpse of his truck pulling onto the road, dust trailing behind.
Out in the yard, Milly kneels among the chickens, laughing when one flaps onto her boot.
Penny’s words press heavier.
Watch for what’s not said? So cryptic and yet not helpful.
The ranch reveals itself in circuits.
I start with the house—locks, windows, doors. Penny favored charm over efficiency, but charm won’t stop someone determined. I swap out the weak deadbolt on the back porch, oil the hinges on the pantry door, and mark a note about the sash window that doesn’t seal tight.
Next, the barn. The latch is loose. I fix it with a screwdriver from my back pocket, filing away the need for sturdier hardware.
Sherlock appears as if summoned by the sound of my boots. He plants himself squarely in my path, chewing hay with all the authority of a king holding court. His eyes narrow. He bleats.
“I’m not your subject,” I tell him.
He doesn’t move. Just keeps watching, chewing his breakfast.
The absurdity draws something close to a smile. For all his arrogance, he’s a decent patrol partner.
I finish the barn circuit and head for the fence line. The earth is damp from last night’s drizzle, soft enough to show impressions. Near the road, I find tire tracks—rougher treadthan Browne’s city tread on his truck. Wrong direction for the feed delivery listed in Penny’s accounts.
I crouch, trace the edges with my hand, commit the pattern to memory. Then I take out my phone and snap two photos—one close enough to catch the tread pattern, another wide shot showing its place near the fence line. Documentation. If it’s nothing, it’s filed away. If it’s something, I’ll have proof.
By the time I return, the sun is high enough to throw long bars of light across the yard. Milly is crouched among the chickens, notebook in one hand, scattering grain with the other. The birds crowd her feet, clucking and fluttering, and she laughs, quick and bright, at something only she would know. The sound echoes in my chest. I wasn’t supposed to catalog things like that. I wasn’t supposed to want. I was on a mission.
But even as I watched, her guarded veneer had lifted in a matter of hours, though a stillness still peeked through.
She strokes one hen’s back, hair slipping loose from her knot. She tucks it behind her ear absently. My gaze lingers before I can remind myself this is duty.
Back at the porch, I mentally log the creaks in the boards, adjust the placement of the spare key Browne left under a flowerpot, and change the default code on the back door. Small tasks, invisible but necessary.
As I head inside, Penny’s instructions echo in my mind:Keep the sheet music safe.I go to the music room, a thrumming in my chest as I turn the knob and walk inside. The room has been closed for a while; the smell of old paper and well-loved music fills the air.
The piano lid creaks as I open it, the keys vibrating slightly. A folder rests there, edges frayed from years of use. Inside: sheet music annotated in Penny’s dramatic scrawl. Tucked into the folder is a photograph, Milly, no more than six, perched on thebench beside Penny. Both grinning, hands on the keys. Beneath the photo lies a separate sheet of lyrics, written like a confession:
Not just a niece, but a piece of my soul.
Lost to silence, lost to pride.
If I could trade years for one more song, I would.
My grip tightens. Regret laces every word. It’s not a professional composition, just raw emotion.
I glance through the window. Milly’s still outside, sunlight catching the copper in her hair as she leans on the porch rail, smiling again when Sherlock bleats by the barn.
She doesn’t know this is here. Doesn’t know her aunt left behind a melody meant for her, unfinished.
The photo slips back into the folder, but the words burn in my head.
