By the end, my hands were shaking.
Emily whispered, “I’m sorry.”
I looked at her in disbelief.
“For what?”
“For bringing all this into your life.”
I bent over her hospital bed and pressed my forehead against hers.
“You didn’t bring this into my life. You revealed what was already there.”
At four in the morning, after Emily finally fell asleep, I drove back to the apartment.
My family was gone.
So were several appliances, two suitcases from our closet, Emily’s jewelry box, and the television.
The living room was somehow messier than before.
I climbed onto a chair, opened the cabinet above the refrigerator, and pulled down the flour container.
Inside, sealed in a plastic freezer bag, was a thick blue envelope.
The return address belonged to Dunham, Price and Hale.
My fingers struggled to tear it open.
The first page was addressed to me.
Mr. Ethan Daniel Cole,
