The letter arrived on a Tuesday, which was strange, because Mara had been dead for six months.

Declan turned it over in his hands twice before opening it. Her handwriting — unmistakable, looping ds and the little star she always dotted her is with — covered the envelope in his address. No return. No postmark.

She's gone, he reminded himself. You watched them lower the box.

Inside: a single index card. Four words.

Don't trust the doctor.

He sat down on the kitchen floor. Not a chair. The floor, back against the cabinet, because his legs had simply stopped working.

Dr. Harlow had been the one to call him that February morning. Dr. Harlow had walked him through the paperwork, the arrangements, the so sorry for your loss with her measured, careful voice. Dr. Harlow had given him the sleeping pills he'd been taking every night since, the ones that kept the dreams manageable.

Declan looked at the index card again.

The star on the i in trust. Exact. Perfect.

He thought about the last time he'd seen Mara alive — or what he'd believed was the last time. The argument. Her saying I found something, Dec, something that changes everything and him, exhausted, saying tomorrow, tell me tomorrow.

There had been no tomorrow.

He pulled out his phone. Scrolled to Harlow's number. Hovered.

Then he put the phone face-down on the tile and stared at the water stain on the ceiling instead.

If she sent this before she died, why did it take six months?

If she didn't send it before she died—

He didn't finish the thought. Couldn't.

Outside, a car idled at the curb. It had been there when he checked the mail. It was still there now.

Declan didn't move.

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