“No.

This is wrong.

This is a mistake.

This is—” “Read the letter, Evelyn,” Mr.

Sterling said, very gently.

“Harrison wanted you to read it.

In his own words.

Before anyone else could tell you.” And I understood, looking at the little girl in the yellow raincoat holding my ragdoll, that I already knew, in some deep and reeling place, what the letter was going to say.