learned.
One breakfast.
One storybook.
One snowman.
One afternoon at a time.
Then, on December thirtieth, Martin called.
“I found something.”
I stepped away from the twins, who were watching an animated movie.
“What?”
“You told me not to investigate.”
“I did.”
“I didn’t.”
I rubbed my forehead.
“Martin.”
“You’re welcome.”
“What did you find?”
“The correspondence records.”
My attention sharpened.
“We still have them?”
“Archived.”
“And?”
“Cassandra’s letters entered the executive mail system.”
“How many?”
“At least seven.”
My stomach dropped.
“Where did they go?”
“That’s the problem.”
“What
