The detective’s name was Paulson.
I had his number because he had handled a break-in at my house three years ago and I had never deleted the contact.
It was the only reason I called him instead of a general line.
I needed a name, not a queue.
He picked up on the third ring.
“This is Claire Holt.
You won’t remember me—”
“The Drayfield Road break-in.
I remember.” His voice was alert in the way of someone used to late calls.
“What’s happened?”
I told him.
Not everything — not the birth certificate, not Catherine, not the thirty years of questions.
I told him about the nurse’s statement.
I told him about Gerald being alone with Frank.
I told him that Frank had deteriorated sharply afterward and that I needed someone to tell me whether any of this was worth reporting or whether I was a grieving daughter falling apart at midnight.
