He opened the briefcase and handed me a cream-colored envelope. My name was written across the front in Julian’s handwriting. I knew that handwriting. He used to keep score on the back of receipts when we played Scrabble, and he always wrote my name first.
Claire.
“Once you read the letter,” Arthur said quietly, “you’ll understand everything.”
I opened it right there in the doorway.
The first line said:
Our meeting was not an accident. I’ve known you your entire life, and I’ve quietly watched over you.
My fingers went cold.
Then I read the second line.
And my legs simply stopped holding me up.
To understand why, you have to know how I met Julian. And you have to know what I believed about my life before that letter took it apart.
Part 2: Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays
I was three years old when my mother died.
