Tonight, even the name was like a ghostly whisper on the wind.

A chilling gust whipped her hair across her face and lifted the hem of her robe. Seized by sudden resolve, Allison turned back into the bedroom and closed the French doors against the coming storm. Right or wrong, it was time she learned the rest of Kate’s story.

It was time to open the sealed envelope.

Lifting the mattress, she found the packet of letters.

Her fingertips tingled as she held the white, business-size envelope marked For Burke, to be opened after my death.

Was she about to make the biggest mistake of her life?

Just do it! she told herself. But she couldn’t simply rip it open. She would have to steam it open and glue the flap shut when she’d finished reading what was inside, in case Burke, or anyone else, ever found the letters.

Stop dithering! Just do it!

She shoved the envelope into the deep pocket of her robe, went downstairs to the kitchen, and set a kettle of water to heat on the stove. The house was quiet, but in case Burke or Brianna caught her by surprise, she put a packet of chamomile tea and a cup on the counter.

When steam started rising, she held the sealed envelope over the spout of the kettle. Once the flap was loose, she turned off the stove, turned off the light, and carried the envelope back to her bedroom.

Sitting on the bed, she lifted the flap. Inside she found a smaller envelope, blue, and similar to the ones that had held Kate’s other letters. This envelope, too, was sealed.

Allison was preparing for another trip to the kitchen when she turned the envelope over. Her throat jerked tight as she read the single line of Kate’s handwriting.

For the woman who marries my husband

There would be no need to steam it open. This, Kate’s last letter, was for her.

Allison ran a fingertip under the edge of the flap, trying not to tear it.

With unsteady hands, she lifted the pages out of the blue envelope, unfolded them, and began to read.

The doctors have given me just a few more precious weeks. While I can still hold a pen and form words on paper, I want to reach out to you—to welcome you, perhaps, or even to thank you. I understand that sooner or later, after I’m gone, Burke will remarry. Please know that I’m at peace with this. As a man who needs to give and receive love, Burke will be lonely without a companion. I’m grateful that you’ll be there to offer him, and our daughter, the love that I can only give them in memory.