Chapter 3

The kitchen had gone completely silent. Even the caterers had stopped moving. Felipe stood frozen at the pantry door with a tray in his hands, and the forty guests had pressed closer without quite realizing they were doing it, forming a loose ring around the island like spectators at something they could not look away from.

Ronan held the envelope up, turning it so Hale Whitmore could see the return address.

"This is from your office," he said. "Four years ago. Addressed to Nessa."

Hale Whitmore had stopped at the edge of the ring of guests. His thick glasses caught the chandelier light, and for a long moment he did not speak. He looked at the envelope, then at Nessa, then at the guardianship page lying flat on the marble.

"May I?" he asked, holding out his hand.

Ronan gave him the envelope.

Hale turned it over. He looked at the seal — still intact, the flap still glued down. He looked at the postmark, at the date, and something moved behind his eyes.

"This envelope," he said slowly, "was sent to the house on the day Delia Marsh arrived. My office sent it."

"You sent it?" Ronan asked.

"I did not send it personally," Hale said. "My predecessor did. He is retired now, living in Savannah. But I have his files." He paused. "I have been looking for this envelope for three years."

Nessa laughed. It was a thin, shrill sound, and it did not reach her eyes.

"This is absurd," she said. "This is my house, and you are all standing in my kitchen reading my mail—"

"It is not your mail," Hale said quietly. "It is my firm's mail. And it was never opened."

He held the envelope flat on his palm. The cream-colored paper looked small and harmless in his large hand.