“You don’t know what you stepped into.”
“Then tell me.”
She was silent.
Finally, she said, “Your father wasn’t the man you were told he was.”
My stomach tightened.
“What does that mean?”
“He wasn’t a criminal.”
“I know that.”
“No,” she whispered. “You don’t.”
She reached inside her cardigan.
For a moment, I thought she was going to pull out something dangerous.
Instead, she produced a small folded piece of paper.
She held it out.
I opened it.
There was one sentence written in handwriting I recognized immediately.
My father’s handwriting.
I had seen it hundreds of times as a child.
My hands began shaking.
The note said:
Nora, if Evelyn Hart ever finds you, listen to her before you trust anyone.
I stared at the words.
“Where did you get this?”
“Your father gave it to me.”
“When?”
“Three days before he died.”
I looked up.
“Why didn’t you come to me?”
“I tried.”
“When?”
“The day after his funeral.”
I frowned.
“I don’t remember.”
“You weren’t supposed to.”
My blood went cold.
“What does that mean?”
Evelyn looked around.
“Your father’s death was investigated as an accident.”
“Yes.”
“It wasn’t.”
I stared at her.
She continued quietly.
