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…’”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

I looked at the letter again.

For the first time that evening, I understood why Richard had seemed so distracted. Why he kept checking his watch. Why he had insisted on speaking somewhere private.

But there was still one thing I couldn’t forget.

His question.

“Richard?”

“Yes?”

“Did you really think I might have been hurt?”

He was quiet for a long moment.

Then he answered.

“I thought your father might have left something behind that could put you in danger. When Sarah wrote to me, she mentioned an incident from your childhood that I couldn’t explain. I was afraid someone had done something to you, and I was afraid you had been told never to speak about it.”

I stared at him.

“I don’t remember anything like that.”

“I hope you never have to remember anything painful. I hope I’m wrong.”

His eyes filled with tears, but he didn’t try to touch me or move closer.