The invitation arrived two days later. Not by email. Not through an assistant.
Margaret Ashford sent a handwritten note.
Alex stared at the cream-colored envelope sitting on the conference table in her office as though it might detonate if she touched it wrong. The paper was thick, expensive in the subtle way only generational wealth managed to achieve, and her name had been written across the front in elegant black script sharp enough to feel vaguely threatening.
Across from her, Iris nearly vibrated with delight. “Oh, this is either excellent news or the beginning of your assassination.”
Alex slit open the envelope with the edge of a letter opener. “Comforting.”
Inside was a single card.
Mr. and Mrs. Ashford request your presence at Blackthorn Estate this weekend.
Friday through S
