Evelyn Mitchell entered the drying room as though she owned the air inside it.
She wore a navy wool coat, pearl earrings, and an expression of mild disappointment, as if we were all children who had touched something fragile with dirty hands. Age had sharpened rather than softened her. Her silver hair was pinned perfectly, her lipstick immaculate.
“Iris,” she said. “This is unnecessary.”
I looked at her for a long moment.
Once, I had wanted this woman’s approval. I had mistaken her coldness for dignity, her control for strength. I had tried to become smaller around her, quieter, more polished, hoping she might someday look at me and see a daughter.
Now I saw only the architect of a house built without windows.
“Which part?” I asked. “Finding the documents or surviving long enough to read them?”
