“One Dad had written.”
My knees weakened.
“Michael wrote Daniel a letter?”
“No,” Daniel said.
“He wrote it to Emily.”
I looked at him.
“When?”
“Three days before he died.”
That wasn’t possible.
Michael had spent his final three days heavily sedated.
He could barely speak.
“He couldn’t write.”
“He didn’t.”
Daniel reached into his blazer slowly.
I stepped backward.
“Don’t.”
He immediately stopped.
“It’s only a voice recorder.”
I stared.
“A recorder?”
“My mother had it.”
Rebecca began crying again.
“Michael gave it to me the last time I saw him.”
My voice came out sharp.
“You saw my husband three days before he died?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“At the hospital.”
“I was there every day.”
“Not that afternoon.”
I remembered.
There had been one afternoon.
Emily had insisted I go home.
“You haven’t slept properly in a week, Mom. Go shower. Eat something. I’ll stay with Dad.”
I had resisted.
