looked at the paper in my hand. The handwriting was unfamiliar, but the message carried the weight of someone who expected me to understand.
Samuel Reed.
My mother had written his name on the back of a photograph. She had kept the silver key hidden beneath her bed. Claire had written about him in a letter meant to reach me. And now someone had placed a new message in the very room where my mother had once lived.
Too many people had known pieces of my life.
I had known
