The manila envelope lay on the desk in front of her. In her present condition, the mere thought of putting it back in the drawer made her feel tired. But given the chance that Brianna might come rushing home and see that her stepmother had been snooping, Allison knew it would be prudent to leave things as she’d found them.

Willing her hand to move, she picked the envelope up by its nearest end—the bottom. As she lifted it, the flap at the top fell open, spilling the contents onto the desk.

Allison stared at the scattered heap of letters, folded into pretty envelopes that made a rainbow of pastel shades on the desktop. Except for one that was sealed, they’d been torn off at one end, the way Burke tended to open his letters. They were addressed to him, at the far-flung locations where his work as a talent agent had taken him.

The labels in the upper left corners bore the return address of this house—6314 PEACEFUL LANE. And above the address, the name on each one was KATE CALDWELL.

Realizing what she’d found, Allison scooped up the letters. She was stuffing them back into the manila envelope when she was seized by a thought so stunning that it stopped her hands in midmotion.

Maybe she was meant to find these letters.

Maybe, in this time of shattering crisis, there was something here that would help her understand the proud, impossibly stubborn man she’d married.

Or maybe not. The letters were private and precious. She had no business touching them.

Still vacillating, she gazed down at the scattered envelopes, trying to decipher the blurred postmarks. The latest one was dated a few months before Kate’s death.

One envelope, this one plain, white, business size, and thicker than the others, bore no postmark, stamp, or address, only a single line, written in an unsteady hand.

For Burke, to be opened after my death

Allison’s throat tightened as she held it. This letter, if that’s what it was, had almost certainly been written last. And it appeared that it had never been opened.

But never mind that. Today, with her life crumbling like a sandcastle, the last thing she needed was to read the intimate thoughts of the woman Burke had loved.

Hastily, as if fearing she might change her mind, she began scooping the letters into a pile. One letter slipped loose and dropped to the floor, spilling its folded pages—sunny yellow sheets bordered with daisies—onto the carpet.

She reached down to gather them up. The first page had fallen open, lying faceup, inviting her—almost daring her—to read it.

As her fingers brushed the paper, Allison felt a shiver of anticipation. She would read only one letter, she vowed. Then she would put them all back in the drawer and forget she’d ever seen them.