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The inside is lined with faded blue fabric. One corner has been cut open, exposing the wood beneath it.

“Simon searched for the compartment,” Ivy says.

“He knew it was there,” Storm adds. “He just didn’t know how to open it.”

The technician measures the inside walls.

“The depth doesn’t match the exterior,” she reports. “There is approximately three inches of unaccounted space beneath the interior floor.”

The frame could still be there.

Hope flashes across Hazel’s face.

“How do we open it?”

Thomas studies the trunk.

“Show me the lock.”

The technician angles the camera toward the brass plate inside the trunk.

A decorative pattern surrounds the small keyhole.

Three dolphins swim in a circle around a small compass rose.

Thomas leans forward.

“I remember that.”

“What does it mean?” I ask.

“James carved it after Daniel died.”

“Why?”

“He said Daniel always followed the dolphins home.”

Mom inhales sharply.

“Daniel used to whistle that song when we were sailing.”

“What song?” Marquez asks.

“The one in Hazel’s music box.”

Hazel closes her eyes.

“Grandpa’s favorite.”

“No,” Mom says softly. “Your father’s.”

The broken notes still haunt the room in my memory.

I have heard the music box play hundreds of times, but I never knew the song belonged to Dad.

Hazel presses her fingers to her lips.

“He gave it to me because I was the only one who remembered Dad singing it.”