She wasn’t losing track of the household mail.

She was taking the money.

I folded the past-due notice into a small, tight square.

Sarah set her leather briefcase down on the little oak table and left her gloves on.

Steam from her black coffee rose between us in thin, quiet curls.

“Your father’s estate was settled six years ago, Naomi,” Sarah said, laying a yellow legal pad on the wood.

“My mother told me the house went straight to her,” I said.