The instructions were very specific — backed by a downtown law firm.

I was legally required to hand it to you, today, at this address, and to make sure I delivered it in the presence of a woman named Frances Coulter.”

The blood drained from my mother’s face so fast her skin went the color of wax paper.

Doreen froze, her champagne halfway to her mouth.

Even Presley lowered her Jeep keys, some spoiled instinct telling her the afternoon had just changed genres.

She took a foolish step forward and reached for the envelope.