The dates matched perfectly.

The signature at the bottom was a sharp, looping scrawl I recognized instantly from a hundred birthday cards.

Ranata hadn’t accidentally dropped this in the basket.

She had folded it deliberately.

She had hidden it under a mountain of expensive imported groceries she bought with someone else’s money.

The warmth from her hug on the porch vanished completely.

The sisterly apology had been a script.

The offer to buy my heating oil had been a prop to make her look like a savior.