I watched my daughter-in-law swing at my late husband's treasured display case while the big screen showed a quarterback frozen mid-throw behind her.

"Mom, what are you doing?" Washington asked as I pulled my phone from my handbag.

"We aren't breaking into the shop," I said, dialing Harriet back at the house. "Harriet! Go down to the basement. Go to Samuel's old carpentry workbench behind the water heater. Look at the back of the third drawer."

"Evelyn, what is going on?" Harriet’s voice was nervous over the speaker.

"Just look for a small brass key taped to the back frame!" I ordered.

Ten seconds of clattering line noise followed. "I found it! It was taped under the runner! A small silver key with 'Vault 42' stamped on it!"

"Read me the paper attached to it if there is one!"

"There's a folded note in a small leather pouch," Harriet said, paper rustling. "It's in Samuel's handwriting. It says: 'For Evelyn. If anything happens to me, the real 1984 ball is in Safety Deposit Box 42 at First National. The one in the display case is a replica I had made in 2018.'"

I nearly dropped the phone into the snow.

Washington stared at me, his mouth completely open. "What?!"

"The ball in Kruger's window..." Derek whispered, looking through the glass. "...is a fake?"

"Samuel had a duplicate made?" Washington stammered. "Why would he do that?!"

I leaned against the icy stone pillar of the shop storefront, my breath coming out in white clouds. The memory came flooding back—the last winter, the Tuesday nights, the small toolbox, the secretive trips downtown.

Samuel hadn't been sneaking around. He had known his health was failing. He had known that after he was gone, sports memorabilia collectors would come calling. He had created an identical replica ball using a period-accurate 1984 Rawlings leather ball, meticulously re-creating the twenty-eight signatures himself using old game programs as a guide, and placed that one in the display case to protect the real asset for our family's future.

Rosalina hadn't stolen Samuel's priceless treasure. She had stolen a four-hundred-dollar forgery that she thought was worth forty thousand, and sold it to a pawn dealer who hadn't checked the ink under an ultraviolet light.

"Harriet," I said into the phone, my heart pounding with a sudden, fierce joy. "Is there anything else in that pouch?"

"Yes," Harriet read aloud. "It says: 'The real ball stays with Evelyn until the hall of fame comes themselves. The key to the garage wall cabinet unlocks the red leather case under my workbench. That’s where the real one sits when it's not at the bank.'"

"Harriet!" I shouted over the wind. "Is the red leather case under the workbench right now?!"

"Hold on..." Sounds of footfalls on concrete. A heavy latch clicking. "Evelyn... it's here. A red leather box. I'm opening it... Oh, sweet mercy. It's a pristine 1984 championship ball. The silver marker looks like it was written yesterday."

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