The envelope was too heavy to contain only paper.
That was the first thought that entered my mind as I stood in Mrs.
Whitaker’s nearly empty hallway, staring down at my own name written across the cream-colored front.
CARLY.
No last name.
She had never needed one.
For eight years, every Thursday morning at nine, I had let myself into that house with the brass key she had trusted me to keep.
I knew the house better than some people know their relatives.
I knew the third stair complained when you stepped on the left side.
I knew the upstairs bathroom faucet needed to be turned slightly past center or it would drip all afternoon.
I knew Mrs.
Whitaker kept emergency cash in an old tea tin behind the flour, though I had never touched it.
I knew which framed photograph on the mantel had belonged to her husband, Harold,
