“Someone’s here.”
“Don’t open it.”
I walked toward the front hall, phone pressed to my ear.
Through the narrow glass beside the door, I saw a delivery envelope leaning against the mat.
No person.
No truck.
Just the envelope.
My name was written across the front in black marker.
ANNE EVERETT
“Grace,” I whispered, “there’s a package.”
“Leave it.”
But I was already unlocking the door.
The porch was empty. The street quiet. The air smelled faintly of rain and cut grass.
I picked up the envelope and shut the door quickly behind me.
Inside was a single key.
Old brass.
And a folded piece of paper.
The handwriting was unfamiliar.
But the message was clear.
“Your husband did not choose Melanie by accident. Laurel House is where this began. Ask Miriam what your father knew.”
I read it once.
Then again.
My father.
The room swayed.
My father had known about Laurel House?
My father, who had welcomed Lucas into our family.
My father, who had trusted him.
My father, whose estate documents Lucas had stolen.
I turned the paper over.
On the back was an address in Palm Springs.
Not the luxury condominium.
A different address.
