Jamie shook his head.
“No. The lady was older.”
“Who was she?”
He took a long breath.
Then said, “Claire’s mom.”
I stared.
Claire’s mother, Evelyn, had always told me she’d never met my family before our wedding.
She’d attended my mother’s funeral and spoken warmly about how she wished they had known each other longer.
Had she been lying?
I wanted to ask Jamie more.
But before I could, someone knocked on the front door.
Three slow knocks.
Then silence.
Martin was still outside, but his voice had faded toward the driveway.
I looked through the peephole.
My blood turned to ice.
A woman stood on the porch.
She was wearing a long beige coat.
Her silver hair was neatly pinned back.
And in her hands, she held a small wooden box.
It was Evelyn.
Claire’s mother.
I opened the door only as far as the security chain allowed.
