In one hand was the picture of her, Marin, Josie, and Bennett that she’d kept from Marin’s belongings before they were donated to Goodwill. In the other was a bloodstained envelope she had found on her bed this afternoon, shortly after the memorial for Bennett started, a simple affair hosted by her parents in their home. They had decided against a funeral home at Vera’s request; more than once she had described in vivid detail the picturesque mansion to Bennett, who was equally intrigued by its infamy and its grandiosity, and pleased that his daughter, far from being spoiled by such opulence, remained delightfully down-to-earth. It seemed only fitting to Vera that her father, a beautifully humble man who had endured with grace a lifetime of privations, should go out in stylish surroundings.

For all that, the family decided to keep the ceremony itself—like the man—simple. Vera had sketched a portrait of Bennett in Contè crayon, depicting him as a young, vibrant man before the ravages of illness and sorrow and guilt took their toll. The picture, in a barnwood frame, sat upon an easel in the sitting room where the ceremony was held. It had been Bennett’s wish to be cremated; at Vera’s insistence, his urn sat upon the antique writing desk, the beloved heirloom of her great-great grandmother Alvera Fields, she and her father had restored.

Vera recognized most of the callers—relatives, classmates, friends of the family, her parents’ colleagues—who dropped off condolences and flowers. Some were opportunistic looky-loos, taking advantage of the circumstances to infiltrate the fabled Execution Estate; tipped off by their blatant snooping into private areas, the security guards Oliver hired discreetly escorted them off the premises. Austin and Blythe, on the other hand, were given the grand tour of the mansion by Vera herself, with especial attention to the library, which they pronounced way-cool.

A precious few acquaintances came to pay their respects to Bennett. He had long ago lost touch with most people, especially after Josie—aka bio mom—disappeared and he sank into a slow ruin. But this letter meant that not everything had been lost. Her biological mother was still out there. Possibly even here in this very room. And just like her great-great-grandmother Alvera, the mystery of who she was tugged at Vera. Yanked at her. Heaved and hauled her into its grip.

The envelope dotted with her sister’s blood was addressed to Marin but left behind for Vera’s eyes only: