“Who wrote this?”
“Your grandmother, Ruth.”
“My grandmother died when I was twelve.”
“I know.”
“Why did you keep it?”
“Because your mother asked me to.”
Brooke’s eyes lifted. “Why would she ask you?”
Evelyn stood so abruptly her chair scraped the floor.
“Because I was her daughter,” she said. “Because I was grieving. Because I didn’t want my mother’s last words used to punish me.”
Clara did not move. “Ruth did not write it to punish you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I was there when she wrote it.”
Evelyn’s face collapsed for one instant, revealing an exhaustion far older than the evening.
Brooke opened the envelope.
Inside was a single letter, folded twice.
The house grew so quiet that the sleet sounded like handfuls of sand thrown against the glass.
Brooke read the first lines silently. Her lips moved, then stopped.
Her eyes traveled down the page.
“What does it say?” Daniel asked.
She looked at him as though she had forgotten he was there.
“It says my mother was afraid.”
Evelyn closed her eyes.
Brooke kept reading.
“She says Evelyn took money from the family account.”
“Brooke,” Evelyn said.
“She says you forged her signature.”
“That is not what happened.”
“She says you sold the property in South Carolina without telling her.”
“It was already being foreclosed.”
“She says Clara paid the taxes to keep the house from being seized.”
Clara lowered her gaze.
Brooke looked up. “You saved my grandmother’s house?”
“I helped her keep it.”
“Why?”
“Because she asked.”
Evelyn walked around the table. “Your grandmother was confused. She blamed me for everything after your father left.”
“She says you told her I had died.”
The room seemed to contract.
Daniel’s head came up.
Evelyn stopped.
