words.
Only a scanned page from an old notebook.
My mother’s handwriting.
I recognized it instantly.
And on the final line, written thirty-four years earlier, were the words:
If Ron Bailey ever finds me, he will make sure my family pays for what I did.
I looked across the porch.
At Caleb.
At Grace.
At Laura.
At the tangled family history that had somehow wrapped itself around my life before I ever met my husband.
And suddenly, I understood.
Ron had never invited twenty-two relatives to celebrate Grace.
He had
