“When did she write this?”
“We don’t know,” Lucas said.
“You said you found it in her house.”
Douglas shook his head.
“Not exactly.”
The effort of speaking brought a cough from him. Lucas immediately poured a little water and helped him drink.
I waited.
Every instinct in me wanted to demand answers.
But watching Lucas lift the glass to his father’s lips reminded me that this wasn’t merely my story.
Lucas was losing his father.
Whatever mysteries had been buried in that blue suitcase, he had carried them into a hospital room while preparing himself for the worst day of his life.
When Douglas settled again, Lucas continued.
“After your mother died, her house was sold.”
“I know.”
The words sounded strange coming from me.
Of course I knew.
I’d been the one who’d sold it.
Or at least I’d thought I had.
