My stepdad raised me after I lost my mother — just hours before he d*ed, he gripped my hand and whispered, “There’s something I’ve hidden from you your entire life.”

Paulson was quiet for a moment.

“Is your father still living?”

“I don’t know.” My throat tightened.

“I left the hospital to come here.

I haven’t called back yet.”

“Call the hospital.

Right now.

Then call me back.”

I called the hospital.

The nurse on Frank’s ward answered on the second ring.

I gave my name.

There was a pause — the kind of pause that has a shape — and then she said she was sorry.

Frank had passed forty-five minutes ago.

I sat with that for a moment.

Miriam had come to stand in the doorway between the hall and the living room.

She read my face before I said anything.

Her hand went to the doorframe.

“He’s gone,” I said.

She nodded once.

Her eyes closed.

I called Paulson back.

“He’s gone,” I said again.

“My father just passed.”

“I’m sorry.” A beat.