Margaret looked past Clare’s shoulder toward the ballroom doors, where Gerald stood near the bar alone.

“Your father spent fifteen years protecting this family’s standing in Greenfield,” Margaret said.

“He spent fifteen years hiding forty-three letters in his office desk,” Clare replied.

Clare took my right hand, her cold fingers pressing against my silver class ring, and led me down the narrow hall toward the kitchen service area.

The kitchen service hall was quiet except for the steady hum of the ice machine near the back loading bay.

Clare set a heavy kraft paper bag on top of an overturned wooden crate near the kitchen doors.