Sam was in his 40s, wore black sneakers with a suit, and carried the permanently alert expression of someone responsible for too many people.

He asked if I was ready for my presenter.

I stood.

Now?

Now.

I followed him through a narrow backstage hallway.

I expected a foundation president, maybe a former governor or prominent nonprofit executive.

Sam stopped outside a dressing room.

She asked for a few minutes alone with you.

Why?

He smiled.

You’ll see.

I hated that answer.

He opened the door.

An older woman stood near the mirror, silver-haired, dressed in a black pantsuit, posture perfectly straight.

I recognized her before she turned.

Evelyn Grant.

I stopped.

If Patricia had been beside me, she might have fainted.

She owned every Evelyn Grant movie—VHS, DVD, Blu-ray. The same films in three formats.

I once joked that Patricia had personally financed Evelyn Grant’s retirement.

Evelyn turned.

Clareire Witmore.

My mouth worked half a second slower than my brain.

Yes.

She smiled.

I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time.

That made even less sense.

I’m sorry.

She motioned toward a chair.

Please sit.

I did.

Sam closed the door behind us.

Evelyn sat opposite me.

My sister knew you.

I searched her face.

Your sister?

Margaret Bell.

And instantly, I remembered.

Margaret.

61. Soft voice. Gray cardigan. 30 years outside the workforce and terrified of interviews.

I leaned forward.

Margaret was your sister.

Evelyn nodded.

She never told you?

No, she wouldn’t have.