Bill found the box empty.
Bill owned his own bar. After this discovery, he closed shop for the night. It was a weekday so he could manage the loss of business. Hopefully. Maybe.
He drank himself into a coma that night. He sat motionless on the center bar stool after making himself a stiff drink. It was gone before he realized he drank it. For a moment, the man was convinced he never made it in the first place. He poured another anyway. The box still lay open in front of him. Taunting him. Someone had taken it. Someone knew.
Bill never woke up after that, not really. Concerned friends and family would whisper that he didn't seem to feel anything at all.
They were all right. He didn't feel anything at all. It was better than the alternative.
He looked guilty, others told him. He wasn't, he'd respond. He was getting better at lying.
Eventually the police found another suspect and Bill became just another grieving husband with no trophy left to remember the happiest day he'd spent with his wife.