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…’”

I wanted to remain angry.

I wanted to tell myself that his behavior was proof of something terrible.

But his face showed no satisfaction, no amusement, no trace of the strange expression I had interpreted beside the pool as lust.

Only shame.

And fear.

Still, I wasn’t ready to trust him.

“Why the hotel?” I asked.

“Because I don’t know who has been listening to my telephone calls.”

I looked toward the door.

“Are we in danger?”

“I don’t know.”

That was the first honest answer he had given me all evening.

He opened the envelope again and took out one final item.

A handwritten letter.

The paper was yellowed at the edges, and the writing was unmistakably my father’s.

I recognized it from birthday cards and notes he had left on the kitchen counter.

Richard placed it in front of me.

“I found this after your father died. I should have given it to you then, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”