Andrew, who had been dead — who was supposed to have been dead — for more than two decades before Marcus Ellison ever signed a mortgage on Laurel Court.
Thomas sat down in the armchair across from Monique without being asked. His plaid shirt felt suddenly too warm. He set the envelope on his knee.
"Monique," he said quietly. "How long have you known this was here?"
She stroked Ava's hair and did not look at him. "I found it the week after the funeral. In the bottom drawer, under his old planners. It was sealed. It still is." She swallowed. "Marcus never told me about it. Not once. I put it back. I told myself he must have had a reason. I told myself it wasn't my business." A bitter sound escaped her, not quite a laugh. "Then tonight Ava was looking for her dad's old fountain pen — the one he promised she could have when she turned nine — and she found this instead. And she saw your name. And she ran."
"I wanted to help," Ava said into her mother's blouse. "You were crying so hard."
"I know, baby. I know."
Thomas looked at the envelope. The blue ink. The bird-wing T. Twenty-five years collapsed into the space between one breath and the next.
"I won't open it," he said. "Not unless you want me to."