THE EMAIL I SENT BEFORE DESSERT

in my bedroom wasn’t sentiment. It was a flag. A way of saying I was here, in her house, and she didn’t know.

Janet looked at all of it spread across her kitchen table and took her glasses off and rubbed the bridge of her nose for a long time.

“The handwriting isn’t Sophie’s,” she said.

“No.”

“And it isn’t Robert’s.”

“No.”

She tapped the bank statement. continue reading …