Her blond hair was shorter now and silver near the temples, but she still carried herself carefully, as though always aware that Charles Whitmore disliked scenes.
“Laura.”
“Evelyn.”
She approached slowly.
“Your father has gone.”
I blinked.
“Gone?”
“He said he wasn’t feeling well.”
Brandon muttered, “Meaning he wasn’t controlling the room anymore.”
Evelyn ignored him.
Then she looked at the lighter in my hand.
Her expression changed.
“Oh.”
“You recognize it?”
“Of course.”
“Do you know what Grandpa meant by the blue folder?”
For several seconds, she said nothing.
Then she surprised both of us.
“Yes.”
Brandon straightened.
“What?”
Evelyn glanced toward the ballroom.
“Not here.”
We drove to the Whitmore house in McLean after the reception.
I had not crossed its front door in ten years.
The rain had stopped, leaving the long driveway shining beneath evening light.
The house looked smaller.
That was the first thing I noticed.
As a teenager, it had seemed enormous—three stories of brick, white columns, dark shutters, and rooms where footsteps echoed.
Now it was simply a house.
A beautiful one.
An expensive one.
But still a house.
Maybe leaving had changed its proportions.
Evelyn unlocked the door.
I stopped in the foyer.
The grandfather clock still stood beside the staircase.
The Persian runner was still slightly crooked near the library entrance.
There was still a faint lemon-polish smell.
And for half a second I expected my mother to walk around the corner.
The thought vanished quickly.
She had been dead seventeen years.
Memory didn’t care.
Brandon touched my shoulder.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
He didn’t believe me, but he let it go.
Evelyn led us toward Grandpa’s study.
Dad had wanted to renovate it after Grandpa moved into a smaller home nearby. Grandpa had refused.
“He said this room belonged to history,” Evelyn explained.
“That sounds dramatic,” Brandon said.
“Your grandfather was dramatic.”
“He would deny that.”
“He denied many accurate things.”
I almost smiled.
The study remained nearly untouched from my childhood.
Dark shelves.
Military histories.
Old maps.
A green banker’s lamp.
A large wooden desk with scratches along its edge.
On the wall hung framed photographs from Grandpa’s service.
I found one of myself among them.
I was twenty-three, wearing a medical officer’s uniform after completing training.
I hadn’t known he had the photograph.
I stepped closer.
Beside it was a picture of Brandon graduating from Harvard.
Equal size.
Equal placement.
For some reason, that nearly undid me.
Evelyn noticed where I was looking.
“He put yours up the week you sent it.”
“I sent that in a Christmas card.”
“He kept every card.”
