I held out my hand and took the envelope. While she watched, I unfolded the clasp, opened the package, and peered in. There were three or four sheets of letterhead stationery and a series of letters bound together with two thick rubber bands, old ones apparently, because both snapped when I tried removing them. I did a finger walk through the envelopes, some of which were addressed to me and some to Virginia Kinsey, my Aunt Gin. The postmarks were assorted dates in the latter half of 1955—the same year my parents were killed—starting in June and extending through the next two calendar years. One had been opened but the rest were still sealed. Across the front of each envelope there was either an emphatic “RETURN TO SENDER!! ADDRESSEE UNKNOWN!” in Aunt Gin’s unmistakable bold printing or equally forceful messages delivered by way of post office rubber stamps with a purple-ink finger pointing accusingly at the return address. You’d think a federal crime had been committed from the savagery expressed.

I knew what I was looking at. In one of my last conversations with Tasha, we’d argued this very point. Her mother, my Aunt Susanna, had said that the day my parents were killed, they were traveling to Lompoc in hopes of a reconciliation with my grandparents. She claimed that after they died, Grand tried for years to establish contact with me and had finally given up. I’d assumed it was all bullshit, Aunt Susanna’s attempt to put a better spin on the tale of my abandonment. Having never spoken to my grandmother, the gist of my quarrel with her was that she’d been content to let me languish, bereft of family solace and support, for the twenty-nine years following my parents’ deaths. Aunt Gin’s parenting, while adequate, had been curiously deficient in matters of warmth and affection. Her remoteness might well have been something she learned at her mother’s knee, but whatever the origin, I was affected. She’d taught me many valuable lessons about life, most of which still serve me, but of comfort, closeness, and nurturing, there was little. The letters were proof Grand had made an effort that Aunt Gin had rebuffed.

I found myself without a word to say. I might have mustered a weak protest, but what would have been the point? I’d been wrong in my assumption. Grand wasn’t to be faulted for neglect. Aunt Gin had refused her letters, thus cutting off communication. I cleared my throat. “I appreciate this.”

“Go ahead and open them if you want.”

“I’d prefer to be alone if it’s all the same to you. Unless the letters turn out to be too personal or too painful, I’ll be happy to make copies and get them back to you.”

“Take your time.”

“Will you tell Grand you found them?”