Chapter 2: The Envelope
I opened the door.
My father stood on the step, his coat still on, like he hadn't decided whether he was staying.
Melissa was right behind him.
My mother hung back near the porch railing, not quite meeting my eyes.
"Claire." My father's voice was warm in a way it hadn't been in months.
"We've been worried about you."
I didn't move from the doorway.
"You saw the headline," I said.
"We saw it, yes.
We wanted to come and—"
"The funeral was on a Friday," I said.
"You had a reservation."
His jaw tightened.
"Claire, that's not fair."
Melissa stepped forward.
"We're here now.
That has to count for something."
I looked at her.
She was wearing the earrings I had given her for Christmas two years ago.
She looked healthy.
Rested.
She looked like someone who had spent the last six months living her life.
"Aunt Ruth drove six hours," I said quietly.
"She found out from a neighbor."
Nobody answered that.
Then my mother held out an envelope.
Her hand was steady, but her eyes weren't.
"We thought, since you're setting up the foundation…
we could help.
Be involved.
As a family."
I stared at the envelope.
Something about the way she was holding it — too ready, too prepared — made my stomach drop.
I took it.
Opened it.
And the number written inside told me exactly how long they had been planning this visit.
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What Claire does next will shock you.
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