The mail dropped through the slot at twenty to nine, and my mother had it in her hand before the second envelope even hit the mat.

“Those belong to the estate,” I said.

Victoria Sterling didn’t turn around.

She evened the stack against her palm, tucked the top piece under her cardigan, and laid the rest on the counter.

“Just bills, sweetheart.

Nothing you need to worry about.”

Her fingers found the pearls at her throat and stayed on them.

I went back to the mugs.

Twelve of Arthur’s coffee cups sat on the kitchen table in a nest of newspaper, most of them chipped along the rim, every one of them stained the color of weak tea.

The smell of the cupboard drifted out of the paper as I unfolded it.

“He bought this one in Rockport,” I said.

“He had a whole story about a seagull.”

“Wrap it or toss it, honey.

The house has to be presentable by the end of the month.”

Presentable for what, she didn’t say.

I folded the paper around the cup and didn’t ask.

Arthur’s brass key still hung on its nail beside the back door, too heavy now for any lock in that house.

No one had taken it down.