The envelope was exactly where I’d left it. In the daylight it looked strangely ordinary, like it belonged with the stack of mail on any bedside table.
For a long time I stayed under the covers, staring at it, listening to the house settle and arguing with myself about whether I wanted to know what was inside. Eventually I sat up and reached for it. My fingers felt clumsy on the flap. I tore it open carefully, half expecting another typed line or a threat. Instead, something soft and thin slid into my palm.
A photograph.
It was old, the colors faded toward yellow. Robert stood on the left, younger, dark-haired, one arm around a woman I recognized from the hallway portraits—his late wife. Xavier sat cross-legged on the grass in front of them, maybe eleven or twelve, gap-toothed and grinn
