Once inside, I set my purse on the small entry table and slid the deadbolt into place.

I walked into the kitchen and tore the white envelope open with my thumb.

Inside was a single folded sheet of lined notepad paper.

I unfolded the paper under the microwave light.

We found something that belongs to you, Mara.

There was no signature, but the neat, slanted script belonged to my mother, her letters perfectly spaced and deliberate.

I walked into the living room and switched on the small brass desk lamp.

The apartment felt cold, the radiator beneath the window hissing as the steam began to rise through the pipes.