“I know it isn’t,” Beatrice said.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“Because Charles compared it to the birthday card Kelsey sent you years earlier.”

I remembered that card instantly.

My thirtieth.

She had drawn a deliberately crooked cake in the corner because she insisted store-bought cards had no character.

My father had kept far more than I ever realized.

“Whoever signed for it knew her full name.”