“Are you Helen Davis?” the process server asked again, louder this time.

“Yes,” she whispered, her hand trembling as she reached out.

He placed the thick envelope into her hand.

“You have been served,” he said.

My father, Richard, appeared at the end of the hallway, his shirt untucked and his hair disheveled.

He looked older than I remembered, his face gray under the dim yellow light of the chandelier.

“Who is at the door, Helen?” he demanded.

Then he saw me, and he stopped dead in his tracks.

“Sadie,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Go answer the phone, Richard,” my mother said, her voice shaking as she stared at the envelope. “It won’t stop.”

My father glared at me, then turned and walked into the kitchen.

A moment later, the ringing stopped.

The silence that followed was heavy and suffocating.

I stepped inside the foyer, Wyatt’s hand firm and warm against the small of my back.

The house smelled of stale cigar smoke and damp wood, a scent I had associated with fear for as long as I could remember.