The pieces spilled across the porch in a sharp clatter that didn’t sound anything like coins.
Not pennies.
Not crumpled dollar bills.
Not toy treasures a child might hide away.
Keys.
Dozens of old silver keys slid across the wood, mixed with tiny folded scraps of paper yellowed by age. Some keys were rusted black. Others still carried faded tags with handwritten addresses and apartment numbers.
For a second, nobody moved.
Then the older police officer crouched slowly beside the broken piggy bank and picked up one of the notes.
His face changed instantly.
“Ma’am,” he said carefully, “where did these piggy banks come from?”
“I—I don’t know,” I stammered. “They were just here this morning.”
Oliver peeked out from behind my robe, clutching my arm.
“Did I do something bad?”
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