I did not want him to inherit my fear.
“No,” I said quietly. “I’ll answer.”
Evelyn stepped closer to the bassinet, one hand resting protectively on its side.
With my left hand, I picked up the phone and pressed accept.
“Mom.”
For half a second, there was only breathing.
Then my mother spoke, and her voice was not the voice she used at family dinners. It was not polished or light or carefully disappointed. It was thin around the edges.
“Claire,” she said. “Where is Richard?”
I glanced at him.
“He’s here.”
“I need to speak with him.”
“You called my phone.”
Another pause.
“That envelope belongs to me.”
The words settled over the room.
I looked at the cream-colored paper in Richard’s hand. My name was written across it in her handwriting.
“It has my name on it,” I said.
“Claire, you don’t understand what you’re looking at.”
