I reached into the gilded binding of the old Bible and pulled out a faded white envelope tucked behind the family tree page.

It was addressed to Dr.

Marcus Thorne at a hospital in Chicago, postmarked November fourth, 1998, and stamped Return to Sender in dry red ink.

Eleanor stood up so quickly that her double strand of pearls clattered against the silver buttons of her cardigan.

She snatched the envelope out of my fingers before I could fold it into my pocket.

“That envelope belongs to my private family archive,” Eleanor said.