Laurel Court.
In care of Marcus Ellison, it said beneath, in a smaller hand.
He stared at his own name. The handwriting did something to the room — tilted it, thinned the air.
"Why is that addressed to me?" he heard himself ask.
Monique's face changed. "Thomas, stay out of this."
But he was already turning the envelope over, already feeling the weight of years sealed inside a flap of paper. The script on the front was looping, slightly old-fashioned, the capital T of his name written the way only one person in his life had ever written a capital T — with a flourish that looked almost like a bird's wing.
"I know this writing," Thomas said.