My eyesight was blurring, but I was too keyed up to relax. Up the stairs I went, into the apartment, to the bed. The kittens were curled up by the pillows, their heads tucked to the side on each of their paws. I didn’t know if it was the benefit of blood relation that put them into the exact same pose as they slept or if all cats slept like that. Careful not to disturb them, I picked up the box of memorabilia I’d started flipping through earlier and sank onto the carpet. With the flashlight on my lap, aimed diagonally toward the ceiling, I flipped through my aunt and uncle’s memorabilia. As I reached the bottom of the box, I discovered a collection of envelopes that had been secured with a whisper-pink satin ribbon. Each letter was addressed to Marius Monroe. The return address was Burbank, California. I knew it well; it was the house my parents had moved to after they’d left Glendora. Before I pulled the first piece of paper from the envelope, I knew what they were.
