PART 1 — The Letter After the Birthday The first thing I remember clearly is the sound of the glass breaking. Not the accusation. Not Elena Moreau’s hand resting on the handwritten letter as if it were a wounded bird she had just rescued. Not the lawyer’s polished table or…
PART 1 I remember the rain on the stone steps more clearly than the exact first words Grant said to me that night. Memory is strange that way. People think that when your life splits open, you remember every sentence, every glance, every breath. But memory keeps the iron gate…