Her name is Vivian Holloway. Twenty-nine. Real estate agent. Dark hair, red lipstick, likes posting inspirational quotes online about “choosing joy.” I know how pathetic it sounds that I know this much, but once you realize you’re being lied to, you start collecting facts the way some people collect proof they still exist.
Dorothy let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob.
That was her daughter. Even in devastation, still capable of a sentence sharp enough to cut glass.
Then the letter turned darker.
I am not writing this because I think Grant wants me dead.
I am writing it because he has asked about my life insurance policy three times in two weeks.
How much is it worth?
Would complications during childbirth affect payout?
How quickly would benefits be released?
He asked Doctor Prescott whether hemorrhage during triplet delivery was common. He asked it casually, like someone asking whether it might rain tomorrow.
Maybe it means nothing. Maybe I am frightened and everything feels sinister. But if I am right, I need you ready.
Dorothy lowered the pages into her lap and stared through the windshield at the library building.
Rain tapped the roof of the car.
Her daughter had known.