I stepped forward, wrapping my arms around both of them, pulling Sadie’s trembling frame against my chest. She collapsed into us, burying her face into my neck, weeping the deep, agonizing tears she had been holding back for weeks.
Over her shoulder, I met Beth’s gaze.
Beth was staring at the return address on the cream-colored envelope. She held up the envelope to the light from Sadie’s desk lamp.
“Laurel,” Beth whispered, pointing to the tiny, embossed logo nestled inside the inner flap of the envelope. “Look at the maker’s mark.”
I squinted through my tears.
Pressed into the heavy paper was a microscopic monogram: *The Gilded Quill Stationery & Print, Oakridge Plaza.*
Oakridge Plaza was three blocks from Marilyn’s country club.
The house was deadly quiet at six the next morning.
Sadie had finally fallen asleep around three, curled up between Grant and me in our king-sized bed, exhausted from hours of crying. When her breathing had finally evened out into deep, uninterrupted slumber, Grant and I had carefully slipped out, leaving Beth to sit in the armchair beside the twins’ nursery monitor.
The kitchen still smelled faintly of the sugar rose that had rolled under the cabinets. I hadn’t cleaned it. I wanted the reminder of what had happened yesterday burned into my skull.
Grant stood by the coffee maker, dressed in dark jeans and a heavy wool coat. He hadn’t shaved; the dark stubble along his jawline made him look hollow, severe, and older than his thirty-eight years.
“Are you sure you want to come?” Grant asked, handing me a travel mug of black coffee. “I can go to the print shop alone. You could stay with Sadie.”
“Beth is here,” I said, my voice flat, steady, and devoid of warmth. “And Sadie knows we’re fighting for her now. I am not sitting at home waiting for news. If your mother had a hand in printing those abominations, I want to see the receipt with my own eyes.”
Grant stared into his mug, his expression tortured. “Part of me still can’t comprehend it, Laurel. She’s my mother. She helped raise Sadie. She came to Sadie’s eighth birthday party with that ridiculous four-foot dollhouse. How does someone turn into this?”
“Because that was before,” I said coldly. “Before the doctors told us we were having twins. Before your father’s inheritance became real money. Before she realized that a child who doesn’t share her genetic makeup might inherit half of the Bennett estate.”
Grant didn’t argue. He couldn’t. The cold logic of greed and bigotry was staring us in the face.
We arrived at Oakridge Plaza at a quarter to eight. The morning fog hung low over the manicured hedges and high-end boutiques of the affluent suburb where Marilyn spent her Tuesdays playing bridge and getting her hair set.
At precisely eight o’clock, a chime sounded as a middle-aged woman with silver-streaked hair flipped the sign on the glass door of *The Gilded Quill* from *Closed* to *Open*.
Grant and I walked in before she had even taken off her coat.
“Good morning!” the woman said with practiced retail warmth. “Welcome to the Quill. How can I help you folks today?”
I stepped up to the counter, reached into my purse, and laid the cream-colored birth announcement flat against the polished glass display case.
The woman’s smile faltered slightly as she looked down at the card. Her eyes flicked up to my face, then to Grant’s.
“I’m Laurel Bennett,” I said, keeping my tone perfectly measured. “And this is my husband, Grant. We need to know who ordered this print run.”
The woman—whose brass nametag read *Eleanor*—blinked in surprise. “Oh. Mrs. Bennett. Well… you did. Or rather, your account did. The order was placed online through our custom stationery portal two weeks ago.”
“Did I pick them up?” I asked, leaning in.
Eleanor frowned, sensing the tension radiating from us. “No… I believe a courier or a family member picked up the boxes. We had two hundred of them printed on Italian linen cardstock with gold thermography. It was quite a rush order.”
“Eleanor,” Grant said, his voice low, firm, and carrying an authority that made the woman stand up a little straighter. “Neither my wife nor I placed this order. Someone used our names and our address without our authorization. A minor child in our home has been severely harassed because of these cards. We are currently deciding whether to resolve this through our family attorney or involve the local police department for fraud and identity theft.”
Eleanor’s face drained of color. “Fraud? Oh, heavens. Please, let me pull up the digital invoice.”
