The grandfather clock in the study chimes twice, its echo swallowing into the silence of the Moretti mansion. I don't look up. My father's letter lies spread across Lorenzo's mahogany desk, the paper yellowed and creased from being folded and unfolded a hundred times since the wedding. I've read it so many times I could recite it in my sleep, but tonight something feels different. Tonight, I'm not reading—I'm *listening*.
My father always said the truth hides in plain sight. You just have to know how to look.
I pull out a blank sheet of paper and begin writing the first letter of every sentence. Nothing. I try the last letters. Still nothing. Frustration bubbles in my chest, hot and acidic. There has to be something here. Papa wouldn't have arranged for this letter to reach me on my wedd
