I was there the night of the fire.”
Claire’s eyes widened.
“You were there?”
“I was on perimeter watch.
I saw your father catch you through that window.
I saw your mother go back inside.” He paused.
“She didn’t have to.
She could have let the evidence burn.
But she said—”
He stopped.
“What did she say?” Claire whispered.
“She said, ‘He doesn’t get to win.
Not after everything.'”
Claire’s tears came again.
Quiet this time.
Not the raw cry from before.
Richard put his arm around her.
“Let’s go home.”
They walked through the empty ballroom.
The chandeliers still glowed overhead.
The marble floor was scattered with glass from Evelyn’s wine glass, still untouched where it had fallen.
At the door, Claire stopped.
“Dad.”
“Yes.”
“The envelope.
Mom gave you that envelope the night of the fire?”
Richard reached into his jacket and pulled out the worn leather envelope.
The photograph was still inside.
“She gave it to me through the window.
Before she went back.” He looked at it.
“She said, ‘If I don’t come out, give this to our daughter when she’s old enough.
Tell her who her mother was.
Tell her I loved her.'”
Claire took the envelope.
She held it against her chest.
“I’ve been so angry at you,” she said.
“All these years.
You wouldn’t talk about Mom.
You wouldn’t tell me how she passed.
You wouldn’t even tell me her name.”
“I couldn’t.” Richard’s voice was rough.
“If anyone found out who Catherine was, they’d find you.
I had to bury her.
I had to bury everything about her.
Even with you.”
“I thought you were hiding something terrible.
I thought maybe you were ashamed of her.”
“Every day I wanted to tell you.” Richard’s hand was shaking.
“Every birthday.
Every Christmas morning when you came downstairs and I saw her face in yours.
I wanted to tell you her name.
I wanted to tell you how she laughed.
How she sang to you.
How she held you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.”
Claire pressed her forehead against his shoulder.
“She held me like that?”
“Every single night.
She’d stand by the window in the safe house and rock you and sing.
Off-key.
Terribly off-key.”
Claire laughed through her tears.
“What did she sing?”
“Something her mother taught her.
An old song.
She never told me the name.
But I can still hear it.”
Claire pulled back.
“Can you—”
Richard hummed.
Soft.
