That evening I held up the gutted envelope like evidence.
“Your mother has started performing surgery on our mail.”
“What happened?”
“She cut the bottom off. Neatly. I’m surprised she didn’t leave a review.”
“What happened?”
Evan turned it over. He didn’t smile.
“Okay,” he said. “That’s a lot.”
“A lot? Evan. Scissors.”
“She’s just curious. She’s always been curious.”
“She decoded my medical visit.”
“I know.” He rubbed his jaw. “I just don’t think it’s what you think it is.”
“That’s a lot.”
“And what do I think?”
He looked at the table.
“Remember Tuesday?” I said.
“Don’t.”
“A man in a suit, Evan.”
“We don’t know anything. She has friends.”
“Remember Tuesday?”
He was quiet a second too long.
“Okay,” he said. “I have an idea.”
The next morning, a fat sealed envelope sat in the middle of our kitchen table.
No return address. Just Evan on the front.
