Fear.
Not fear of dying.
Fear of what he was about to tell me.
Lucas sat across from me.
“My mother found that photograph in 2003.”
I looked at him.
“Margaret?”
He nodded.
“She and Dad had been cleaning out my grandmother’s attic after she passed away. There was an old box of papers that had somehow ended up with her things. Letters, receipts, photographs. Most of it meant nothing.”
Douglas gave a faint, bitter laugh.
“Until Margaret found Hannah’s name.”
Lucas continued.
“She knew who you were.”
I looked toward Douglas.
“You told your wife about me?”
He smiled weakly.
“On our third date.”
Despite everything, a tiny laugh escaped me.
“That must have gone well.”
“It didn’t.”
Lucas smiled too.
“My mother apparently told him that mentioning another woman on a third date was a terrible strategy.”
“It was,” Douglas murmured.
The smile vanished from his face.
