in the family had yet used that word openly.
His grandfather had spent an afternoon sorting documents at his enormous walnut desk.
There had been several ordinary white envelopes.
And one blue envelope.
Adrian remembered it because Edmund had held it differently.
Carefully.
Almost reluctantly.
When Adrian had asked what it was, his grandfather had smiled.
“Something that belongs to the future.”
At the time, Adrian had assumed he was talking about estate planning.
Now, thirteen years later, Marissa Keane was standing in a small apartment in Quincy holding what looked exactly like the same envelope.
Adrian started the car.
He drove away before Arthur could leave.
—
That night, Adrian went to see his father.
Graham Whitmore lived twenty minutes away in the house where Adrian had grown up.
The estate was smaller than Adrian’s current home but older and more personal.
Graham answered the library door himself.
At sixty-seven,
