“Apparently not.”
I studied the letters. Each envelope had been opened and resealed. There were no postmarks visible on the copies, only handwritten dates.
“Who handled your mail?”
“My assistant at the time.”
“What was her name?”
“Clara.”
Marcus had mentioned her once. Clara Voss, my mother’s longtime administrative aide. She had worked for the family business for nearly twenty years before retiring shortly after my divorce.
I felt cold despite the warmth of the kitchen.
“Did you send anything else?”
Evelyn hesitated.
“A medical report.”
“What medical report?”
“The children’s birth records. I thought you might need proof before you believed me.”
I stared at her.
“You never told me their names.”
“I was afraid you would use them against me.”
“I would never—”
“You say that now.”
She opened the folder again and removed a smaller envelope.
“This was returned to me.”
I took it.
The paper was creased and yellowed at the edges. My name was written across the front in Evelyn’s handwriting.
