Chapter 2: The Envelope With My Name on It
We arrived on Christmas Eve.
Conrad opened the door with that familiar half-smile — the one he used when he was certain he had the upper hand.
Then he looked past me.
His smile didn't disappear all at once.
It left slowly, like the air going out of something.
Four children.
All eight years old.
All with his eyes.
"Cecily." His voice came out flat.
"What is this?"
"You invited me to Christmas," I said.
"I brought the family."
Behind him, a woman appeared in the hallway — younger, polished, a diamond ring catching the light.
His fiancée.
She looked at the children, then at Conrad, then back at the children.
She didn't say a word.
Conrad's mother, Eleanor, stepped forward from the sitting room.
She had gone completely still.
Her face wasn't shocked.
It was something else entirely.
It looked almost like guilt.
"Eleanor," I said quietly.
"You knew, didn't you."
It wasn't a question.
She didn't deny it.
She turned and walked back toward the study without a word.
We heard a drawer open.
Then the sound of a key.
When she came back, she was holding an envelope.
Old.
Sealed.
My name was written on the front in handwriting I didn't recognize.
"This was sent to Conrad eight years ago," she said.
"He never saw it."
My hands were shaking before I even touched it.
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What was inside that envelope — and who sent it — changes everything.
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