Then I reached under.
I lifted the mattress higher, bracing it against my shoulder, and finally saw what had been hiding there.
“Eleanor or Harold lost it.”
A neat little row of small Ziploc bags. Each one packed tight with fine white powder!
Each one was labeled in tiny, careful handwriting. “E-14. R-07. B-22.”
My mouth went dry.
“No,” I whispered to the empty room. “No, no, no.”
Sweet Eleanor. Church-on-Sunday Eleanor. Eleanor, who brought me tea when I had a headache.
Impossible!
My mouth went dry.
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