The conversation ended there because other relatives were watching, yet a small crack had already opened inside my mind. Later that evening, after the funeral guests left my grandmother’s old house, I walked through the quiet kitchen and noticed the familiar porcelain teapot resting on the counter. It had been Dorothy’s favorite, and she had brewed hundreds of quiet conversations around that chipped little spout.
I lifted the lid and saw something strange sitting beneath it, a folded envelope with my name written across the front in my grandmother’s steady handwriting. My hands began shaking as I opened it because the letter inside did not read like a farewell from a loving grandmother. Instead the message contained careful instructions, warnings about people I trusted, and a sentence that made my entire body go cold.
“Brooke, if you are reading this then I did not die naturally, and you must not trust your father or the woman living in my house.”