“I was helping Mother pack her winter clothes,” I said. “There is nothing unstable about folding quilts.”

“She’s worried about you, and frankly, so am I,” Julian said, his hand dropping back to his lap. “You can’t keep looking for things that aren’t there.”

“I found something of yours in Mother’s closet, Victoria, and I think we need to talk,” I murmured, testing the phrase under my breath, though my sister was miles away in her high-rise downtown.

“What did you say?” Julian asked, his brow furrowing.

“Nothing,” I said, sliding my hands into my coat pockets where the cold plastic of the beige drive rested against my thumb. “Did Victoria say anything else?”

“She said you’ve been asking the neighbors about the night Grandmother died,” Julian said. He looked at me with a mixture of pity and exhaustion that made my throat tight. “Just leave it alone, Clara. For everyone’s sake.”

I did not answer him, and the silence stretched between us until the waitress brought the check, the paper slip sliding onto the table between us. Julian reached for his wallet, his fingers lingering on the leather, but I had already set down a twenty-dollar bill.