Her spine stiffened as she read. Wordlessly, she handed the letter to Dad.   
    “‘I know what your parents did,’” he read aloud, frowning. “‘And after all we’ve suffered, it’s hard to watch you bask in your fame and money. Your parents aren’t going to get away with it.’”
    “Who sent this?” Mom asked.
    “I have no idea. It’s unsigned and the return address listed doesn’t exist.”
    Mom flipped the envelope over to study the return address.
    “What’s the writer talking about?” Genevieve asked. “What does he or she mean when they say they know what you did?”
    Mom met her eyes. “They can’t mean anything by it, because we haven’t done anything.”
    “Nothing?”
    “No, of course not,” Mom said. “Nothing.”
    “The letter writer made it all up?” Genevieve asked.
    “Yes,” Mom answered.
    “But why would someone do that?”
    Mom rotated her coffee cup. “Now that you’re as well-known and prominent as you are, you get all kinds of mail, don’t you? The good, the bad, and the ugly?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then I’d say this one belongs in either the bad or the ugly category. I suppose they sent it to worry you or throw you off your game.”
    Genevieve looked to her father. “Dad?”
    “Maybe this is their idea of humor,” he suggested. “They could view this as a prank.”
    “It’s just that I don’t ever get letters about you two. This is a first.”
    “You receive mail via your publisher, right?” Dad crumbled bacon on top of his eggs, as if he’d forgotten that’s not how he ate his eggs and bacon. He always took bites of eggs, then bites of bacon, then bites of eggs.
    “Right.”
    “And do they screen the letters for you?” he asked.
    “Yes.” She received so much correspondence that she hadn’t been able to keep up with it personally in years. “The publicity team typically passes along the funniest, most heartwarming, and most encouraging of the letters. They file the critical and complaining letters.”
    “Then why didn’t they simply file this one?” Mom asked.
    “Because it’s unusual. It’s not garden-variety praise or criticism. It’s creepy and vaguely threatening.” When Genevieve had first read it, while standing inside her publisher’s suite of offices, a stone of foreboding had lodged in her chest.
    “It’s fiction,” Mom said firmly.
    “Are you sure?” Genevieve asked.
    “Of course,” she answered. “Judson? Is there anything you think we should do? In response to the letter?”
    Her father was famous for his reasonable disposition and cool head. In every circle he was a part of, and certainly within the circle of this family, the members looked to him for advice.
    “No,” Dad said. “I don’t think we should do anything in response to this other than ignore it.”
    It takes one skilled faker to recognize another, and Genevieve’s instincts were telling her that the letter had the thrust of truth behind it. The stone of foreboding doubled in size.