The quiet that followed was almost loud. The city hummed outside: sirens in the distance, someone shouting down on the street, the faint thump of bass from a neighboring apartment. Inside, it was just me, the soft whir of the refrigerator, and the echo of Victoria’s smug declaration.
Banned from the beach house.
I slipped the phone into my pocket and walked down the hallway to my tiny home office. It was more of a nook, really—an old wooden desk, a second-hand chair, a tower of mismatched file boxes leaning precariously in the corner. A plant I kept forgetting to water drooped over one edge of the window.
I dropped to my knees in front of the file cabinet and pulled open the bottom drawer.
There it was: a thick manila envelope, its edges worn, the flap sealed with a strip of aging tape that mom herself had pressed down. My chest tightened as I lifted it out. On the front, in neat handwriting that still made my throat close up, was my name.
ALEXANDRA – BEACH HOUSE – IMPORTANT
The word IMPORTANT was underlined three times.