“What happened?”
“She died in July.”
The kitchen seemed to empty of sound.
Thomas reached into his jacket.
“I’m her husband.”
He held out an envelope.
“She left this for Gustav Lindqvist.”
Dad did not take it.
So I did.
My hands shook.
On the front, in handwriting I had never seen before, were the words:
For my father.
Underneath, in smaller letters:
And for Laura, if he finally tells her.
I looked up.
“How did she know my name?”
Thomas gave me a sad smile.
“She knew a lot about you.”
Dad sat heavily in his chair.
Thomas stepped inside.
“There’s something else.”
He looked toward the garden.
“Rebecca had a daughter.”
My heart stumbled.
“A daughter?”
“Yes.”
“How old?”
“Thirty-one.”
“And does she know?”
Thomas nodded.
“She knows everything.”
Then he glanced through the window toward the road.
A black car had stopped near the mailbox.
