Something in the Car

We met Priscilla at a coffee shop of her choosing, which should have told me something — she wanted witnesses, wanted a public room with soft jazz and oat-milk lattes, not a place where voices could rise the way they wanted to.

She was already seated when we arrived, two cups in front of her like she'd ordered for us without asking.

"I don't know what Odalys told you," Priscilla said, before either of us sat down, "but that woman has been unwell since Aunt Solange passed. Confused. It happens with grief, at her age."

"She didn't seem confused," I said. "She seemed scared."

Something flickered across Priscilla's face, there and gone. "This family has always loved its dramatics. You two especially — twins, always finishing each other's sentences, always so sure the world's conspiring against you specifically."

"Someone broke into a notary office on Cardigan Street a week before Aunt Solange died," Georgia said flatly. "That's not drama. That's a police report."

For the first time, Priscilla's composure cracked — not much, just a half-second too long before she answered. "I have no idea what that has to do with me."

"Nobody said it had anything to do with you," I said.

Her jaw tightened. "You're implying it."

We left without finishing the coffee. Outside, Priscilla walked ahead of us to her car — the same pale gold sedan I'd seen idling outside Mrs. Pruitt's house, I was almost sure of it now — and as she opened the back door to toss in her handbag, I caught a glimpse inside.

A slim leather portfolio, half-unzipped, papers visible at the edge. And clipped to the outside pocket, unmistakable even at a distance, a fountain pen with a distinctive marbled barrel — green and gold, the kind you don't forget once you've watched someone use it your whole childhood.

Aunt Solange's pen. The one she'd used for every letter, every card, every signature for as long as I could remember.

Priscilla caught me looking. She didn't flinch, didn't explain. She simply held my gaze for one long moment, shut the car door, and said, pleasant as anything:

"Be careful what you go digging for, Della. Sometimes the truth isn't as kind as you want it to be."

Then she drove away, and I stood on the sidewalk with my heart going too fast, absolutely certain of one thing: that pen should have been sealed in an estate inventory somewhere, not riding around in Priscilla Doyle's handbag.