Vanessa did. She was staring at me.
“What is that?” she called from the stage, her smile tightening.
Dad turned, irritated. “Claire, for once in your life, don’t make a scene.”
I looked down at the envelope. My name was written across it in my grandmother’s hand—elegant, unmistakable, impossible. She had died eleven months earlier after years of letting my parents present themselves as her devoted caretakers. At the funeral, Mom had cried louder than anyone. Two days later, she changed the locks on Grandma’s guest house before the flowers had even wilted.
