I couldn’t do this. These letters had been written by my mother to my father—where his to her had gone was anyone’s guess, but I wouldn’t have been surprised if Marcus had destroyed them—and half of them were so graphic my face felt as if it were on fire. Mama! I put the last one back into its envelope. Hyde would have to read these.
I picked up the tapes and was surprised to see another letter lying there. This one, while addressed to my father, had no postmark on it, and I knew that meant it had never been mailed. I slid the pale lavender paper out, feeling as if it were about to bite me, then drew in a deep, steadying breath, and unfolded it. It was Mama’s writing paper, but this sheet seemed to have stains on it, and some of the ink had run. A glance at the date revealed it had been w
