She glanced down at the blue vinyl binder sitting on the hall bench beside Mark’s briefcase.

“Is that legal paperwork?” Vanessa asked, pointing a polished fingernail at the blue plastic cover.

Mark shook his head quickly without looking down at the bench.

“Just old household receipts,” Mark said.

“Claire keeps every piece of paper that comes through the mail slot.”

Vanessa walked past me into the living room, her low heels clicking sharply on the hardwood floor.

She stopped near the brick fireplace and ran her index finger along the top edge of my grandmother’s silver picture frames.