The Unearthing
Mr. Holloway didn’t hesitate. He drove the spade into the earth beneath the sprawling oak tree. The soil was loose, clearly disturbed within the last few years and never fully compacted. Within five minutes of heavy digging, the metal of the shovel struck something solid with a dull thud.
The news cameraman zoomed in. The neighbors craned their necks.
The deputy knelt down, brushing away the dark Georgia clay. He hauled up a heavy, airtight military-grade surplus ammo can. It was locked with a heavy padlock, but more importantly, it had a luggage tag taped to the top.
The deputy squinted at the tag, then looked up at the Sheriff, his face turning entirely pale.
“What is it, Miller?” Sheriff Walker demanded.
“Sheriff… look at the handwriting. And look at the date.”
Sheriff Walker walked over, took the can, and read the tag aloud. “Property of Sarah Mitchell. Evidence of Theft and Fraud. To be opened only upon her arrest.”
“That’s my father’s handwriting,” I said, a cold realization washing over me.
“Break the lock,” the Sheriff ordered.
With a crowbar from the deputy’s trunk, the lock snapped. The Sheriff popped the heavy metal lid open. The crowd pressed forward, expecting contraband, stolen money, or drugs—the things my parents had spent four years convincing the town I had stolen.
Instead, the Sheriff pulled out a thick stack of envelopes.
Hundreds of them.
