She Was Sitting In My Front-Row Seat Holding My Novel — Smiling Like She Had Stolen My Life

beside her, stacking fallen leaves into piles.

“Mama,” Anna said quietly.

She had not called me that in years.

I crossed the conservatory.

The air smelled of damp soil and citrus leaves.

Anna held a small metal box.

The lid was engraved with my mother’s initials.

L.P.

Lydia Pierce.

My hands shook as Mara opened it.

Inside were three items.

A flash drive.

A folded continue reading …