He wanted it found only by someone gentle enough to open the blanket.
So I had stitched a flat pocket into the lining.
Neat. Hidden. Strong enough to hold. Soft enough not to show.
I had learned that kind of stitching in my little fabric shop on Bell Street, back when brides climbed onto my fitting stool and men brought me funeral suits with hems coming loose. I knew how to hide a seam from people who only saw price tags.
And Madison had looked right through it.