Rose glanced toward the street as if checking that we were alone.
“There’s something else with Mr. Whitmore. Your mother recorded a message a few months ago—a video.”
She met my eyes.
“She was very clear about when it should be played.”
My throat tightened.
“Rose, why are you telling me this?”
She reached out and squeezed my hand.
“Your mother knew, Sierra. She knew what Victoria would do, and she prepared.”
Rose stepped back toward her car.
“Your parents loved you both, but they weren’t blind.”
The notebook felt heavy in my hands—like a promise, like a warning.
Victoria organized the memorial reception like she organized everything: expensively and without consulting anyone.
The restaurant was Italian, upscale, the kind of place with cloth napkins and waiters who introduced themselves by name. She had rented out the private dining room, arranged for catering, sent invitations on cream-colored card stock with my parents’ names embossed in gold.
She hadn’t asked me about the menu. She hadn’t asked me about the guest list.
She hadn’t asked me anything at all.
I arrived late. My taxi had gotten stuck in traffic, and walking from the parking lot with my cane took longer than I’d planned.
By the time I reached the entrance of the private room, Victoria was already standing at the head of the long table, a glass of wine in her hand, giving a speech.
Forty people sat before her—aunts and uncles I barely recognized, friends of my parents whose names I’d forgotten.
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