It had been in the Mercer family for three generations.

I placed it on the mantlepiece next to the folder.

“The house belongs to the county now,” I said.

“You can begin the restoration on Monday.”

“Thank you, Nora,” Mr. Vance said.

“This is a generous gift to the community.”

“It is an erasure,” I said.

I turned and walked toward the double doors.

My shoes clicked against the bare marble.

Lena followed me out to the driveway.

The gravel was wet under our boots.

My driver, Arthur, stood by the rear door of the black sedan.

Just as he opened the door, a silver town car pulled up the gravel driveway.

The engine idled with a low, wet rumble.

The rear door opened, and Margaret Mercer stepped out.

She wore her black mink coat, though the air was more damp than cold.

Her hair was pinned tight, but her face was pale under her heavy makeup.

She leaned on a silver-topped cane as she walked up the stone steps.

“Nora,” she said.

Her voice was thin, but it still held the sharp tone she had used for thirty years.