Dr. Pryce left her alone with them.
She did it without a word. She laid one hand lightly on Nora's shoulder, once, the way you might touch a sleeping child, and went out, and the door closed with a soft click. For a long minute the only sound was the rain at the window and the slow tick of a clock above the bookshelf. Nora sat with her hands flat on the blotter and the yellowed folder before her, and could not make herself reach for it.
Then she slipped the rubber band off, and it broke in two.
They were all there. Twenty-four of them, carbon copies on thin blue paper, soft as cloth with handling, each one numbered in the corner in Pryce's small neat hand. The first was dated ten days after her father's funeral. The last, she saw, with a lurch of the heart, was dated a week before the d
