“What’s that?”
My brain moves faster than thought. The letter is still in my hands, visible. But the USB drive, the actual evidence, is on the bed beside me.
In one fluid motion, I crumple the letter and toss it toward the wastebasket near the window. At the same time, my other hand sweeps the USB drive off the bed. It skitters across the floor, sliding under the antique dresser in the corner.
Gone. Hidden. Safe.
For now.
“Nothing.” I stand, trying to look casual. “Just a letter.”
Luca’s eyes narrow. He moves into the room, picks up the crumpled letter from where it missed the basket. Smooths it out.
I watch his face as he reads, see the progression of emotions. Confusion, then anger, then something harder to define. Disbelief, maybe. Or recognition.
“Your father’s handwriting,” he
