The envelope came back in nine days, but the flap was creased. The glue had been resealed with a strip of clear tape. Someone—my father, I suspected—had opened it. He had looked at his grandchildren’s faces. And then someone else—my mother, I was certain—had forced him to send it back.
Item 23. Birthday card. Opened and resealed. Still returned.
Then came the “Group Chat Leak.” A friend from high school, Tess, was accidentally added to an Archer family thread and sent me the screenshots.
Paige’s messages were a blueprint for a heist: “His company is valued at 68 million. We need to approach this with a plan. Make a list. She’s a numbers person; she’ll respond to numbers.”
My mother’s reply chilled me to the bone: “She has more money than this entire town. She can afford to help her family.”
I didn’t feel sadness when I read those words. I felt a cold, electric clarity. They weren’t coming for me. They were coming for the zeros in my bank account.
