I put Walter’s letter on the coffee table.
“There’s more.”
They read it together.
Adele covered her mouth. Chanel gripped the back of the couch. Jeremiah stared at the memo line.
“For Sylvie’s due,” he said. “Dad wrote that every month?”
“Under his instructions.”
Adele’s voice went flat. “So he knew.”
Jeremiah leaned back. “Maybe this was Dad’s way of saying sorry.”
“Dad wrote that every month?”
Chanel looked at him. “He could have said it.”
Adele nodded. “And sorry doesn’t need a hiding place.”
“No,” I said. “But guilt usually does.”
Then Jeremiah picked up his phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking the senior golf club.”
He turned the screen toward us. “Friday night. Dad’s award dinner.”
