She glanced toward the cake, then back at me.
“What do you mean, sweetheart?”
Sophie pressed her face into my skirt.
“I was told not to tell. But you said I have to tell you everything.”
“That’s right. So tell me. Why were they bad?”
She glanced toward the cake, then back at me, her small voice shaking the way it did when she’d broken something and didn’t want to.
“They were in the garden room. The one with the green couch. Uncle Peter said papers. Evan said when you sign, the money goes.”
I kept my hand steady on her back.
