My uncle once asked me, ‘Are you a virgin?’ when I was already 27 years old. From that moment, I started to be afraid of him. And a few days later, when he took me to a hotel outside the city, he leaned close to my ear by the pool and whispered, ‘After the pool, come up to my room…’”

There were two entries, one handwritten and one typed. A name had been crossed out. Beside it was a signature I recognized immediately.

My father’s.

I looked at Richard.

“What is this?”

“The reason I brought you here.”

My voice began to shake.

“Did my father have another child?”

Richard nodded.

“And that child is Sarah?”

“No.”

He paused.

“Sarah was Claire’s daughter. Your father was not her biological father.”

I stared at him, trying to fit the pieces together.

“Then why did you say I know her?”

Richard looked at the door, as though checking that nobody had followed me.

“Because Sarah has been looking for you.”

A strange, cold feeling spread through my stomach.

“Why?”

“Because she believes you have something that belongs to her.”

I thought of the bracelet in my mother’s jewelry box.

The photograph.

The hospital record.

The question about my virginity.

Nothing made sense.