The agents weren’t from a local office. One flashed a badge so fast I barely caught the logo—something federal, something serious. “We need the box,” the older one said, scanning the yard like I might be hiding more. I handed it over, heart pounding, and asked what this was all about.

Turns out, Uncle Frank had a record. Not criminal—classified. He worked for a defense contractor in the ‘80s. The money wasn’t stolen—it was hush money. Paid to keep quiet about something that went wrong overseas. Something that cost lives. “He kept it buried,” the agent said. “But someone found out. That’s why we’re here.”

I watched them drive away with Roscoe sitting beside me, tail still wagging like it was all just a game. The hole was still open, but the mystery? It had just begun.

The lesson?
Sometimes, the people we think we know best carry secrets too heavy to share. What they bury may protect us—or haunt us. But truth, like a dog with a sharp nose, has a way of surfacing. And when it does, we can only hope we’re ready to face it.