overlooked.
Before you sign the deed, please speak with Evelyn.
There is something she deserves to tell you herself.
A cold feeling entered my stomach.
Evelyn.
Margaret’s daughter.
I had met her maybe seven times in eight years.
She lived two states away.
She was elegant, efficient, always moving quickly.
Our conversations rarely lasted more than a minute.
“Maybe it’s legal stuff,” I said.
But I didn’t believe it.
The next morning, my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Carly?”
I recognized the voice.
“Evelyn?”
“Mom said she gave you the envelope.”
“She did.”
A pause.
“I need to speak with you.”
I looked at Willa across the kitchen.
“About what?”
“Not on the phone.”
My fingers tightened.
“Is something wrong with the house?”
“No.”
“The money?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
Another pause.
“Your mother.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“My mother?”
“Yes.”
My mother, Helen, had been dead for nineteen
