The return address, in severe block letters, read: The Law Offices of Todd Brannon — the same man whose alert was still burning in my pocket.

Frances let out a strange, high giggle.

“Oh, Stuart, don’t be dramatic.

It’s probably tax documents about your father’s old life insurance.

Put it away.

We have cake to cut.” “If it’s so boring,” I said flatly, “you won’t mind if I read it to the crowd.”