“My name is Alice Sterling,” I said, lowering myself into the mud beside him. “Your father told you I was dead. But I am your grandmother.”

The look on his face in that moment told me everything was about to change.

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For three days, a plain black folder sat on the corner of my desk. Thin, unremarkable—easy enough to slide into a book and hide away. My assistant had placed it there without a word, fully aware of what it contained.