I let them in, my hands shaking. The older officer introduced himself as Detective Ruiz and laid a faded newspaper clipping on my kitchen table. Armored Truck Robbed, $900,000 Missing. The date was 1996. “The man who did it lived in this house,” he said. “His name was Earl Dobbs. He died in prison without ever revealing where the money was. His son moved in next door two years ago. You know him as Kurt.”

My mouth went dry. “He told me his last name was Collins.” Ruiz nodded grimly. “We picked him up at a truck stop near the state line last night with $412,000 in a cooler. Less than half.” He looked out my back window at the hole, then at the untouched corner where my rose bushes still stood. “So either he hid the rest,” he said quietly, “or it’s still in your yard.”