A Stranger Handed Me a Blue Box at Church and Said, “You’ll Need This Tonight”—I Wish I’d Opened It Sooner

I studied my daughter’s face as she talked—the slight tension around her eyes, the rehearsed quality of her concern—and tested her. “Funny thing, I thought I saw someone watching the property last week. Near the old trails.”

The reaction was tiny but unmistakable.

Her eyes widened fractionally before she recovered. “Probably hikers, Dad. You know how many tourists come through.” She changed the subject quickly, too quickly.

After she left, Detective Callahan appeared at my door, claiming to reopen the investigation into Blair’s accident, asking questions that felt like tests to see what I knew. I noticed his Rolex—a twenty-thousand-dollar watch on a county detective’s salary. I lied smoothly, said I knew nothing, and watched him leave with growing certainty that the midnight voice had been right about everything.

That night, Blair’s phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number: “Well done keeping silent. They’re watching you. Only trust Raymond Burke.”

Raymond was my best friend of forty years, the only person besides Blair I’d trust with my life.

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