He lifted one of the envelopes but did not open it.
“She hasn’t used this room in years.”
“There are fresh flowers.”
His hand tightened around the letter.
“That doesn’t mean anything. My mother puts flowers everywhere.”
“There were two tea cups in the kitchen.”
Daniel looked at me then.
“Where is she?”
“We don’t know.”
He placed the envelope back exactly where it had been.
For the first time, I saw something beneath his alarm.
Recognition.
Not of the room.
Of the handwriting.
“You know who sent these,” I said.
Daniel glanced toward the hallway, where Silas stood watching us.
“I’m not having this conversation in front of him.”
“You’ve avoided having it in front of him for years.”
His jaw tightened, but he kept his voice controlled.
“You don’t know what happened.”
“You’re right. I don’t.”
I nodded toward Silas.
