Chapter 12: The Letter

Abrams's office smelled like paper and old coffee. He was seventy-two and he cried when he saw me, which I was not remotely prepared for. "Ms. Adair. Three years." "I'm sorry." "Don't be sorry. Sit down." He unlocked a drawer. "He left instructions. Not to be delivered on a date. To be delivered when you came for it yourself." He shook his head, smiling. "Your father knew you extremely well." He handed me an envelope. My name in his handwriting, which is my handwriting, which is a thing...