“Yes.”
I felt physically sick.
“Why didn’t my father tell me?”
“I don’t know.”
“I need the envelope.”
“I’ll give it to you.”
“When?”
“I’m flying to London.”
“No.”
“Claire—”
“You have created enough chaos around my daughters.”
“I know.”
“Send it.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because it contains original documents.”
“Courier them.”
“I don’t trust anyone.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“You shouldn’t.”
Her answer disarmed me.
“But you should see what your father wrote.”
Two days later, Vanessa arrived in London.
Alone.
Pregnant.
Exhausted.
And carrying the envelope that had haunted three families for seven months.
We met in the lobby of my office building.
She looked smaller than I remembered.
Less polished.
Less certain.
She placed the envelope on the table between us.
“I’m sorry.”
“For which part?”
“All of it.”
I opened the envelope.
Inside were partnership agreements.
Bank records.
