“There’s nothing useful for me to say tonight.”
“Are we finished?”
She looked at me for a long moment.
“I don’t know.”
It was the first answer she had given me that did not try to protect either of us.
At the door, she paused.
“Claire asked me one other thing.”
“What?”
“She asked me not to tell you where the rest of the records were.”
I looked toward the box.
“Why?”
“Because she wanted you to find them yourself.”
Tessa opened the door.
“Find what?”
She glanced at the black notebook lying among the folders.
“Your own handwriting.”
Then she left.
I stood in the quiet apartment, staring at the notebook.
Emily had moved closer to it without touching it.
“What does she mean?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
I picked it up.
The cover was worn at the corners. No title. No date.
When I opened it, the first page contained a list of property names, amounts, and initials.
The handwriting was mine.
Beneath the list was a sentence I did not remember writing:
If Claire asks about the Morrow account, tell her the money went to Tessa.
I turned the page.
The next entry was dated four years earlier.
And beneath it, in my handwriting again, was a name I had never seen before.
Rebecca Morrow.
