“Illness does things to the mind, Claire.
It makes people look for reasons, for meaning.
It’s not uncommon to—”
“He found a nurse,” I said.
“From the night Catherine d*ed.
She wrote a statement.”
The mug went back to the table.
This time it stayed there.
“A statement about what?”
“About who was in the corridor that night.
Who went into the room.” I looked at him.
“Who was alone with Catherine before she d*ed.”
Gerald was quiet for a long moment.
Then something in his face changed.
The sympathy didn’t disappear exactly.
It just stopped being the most important thing on his face.
“You need to be very careful,” he said, “about what you do with information like that.
A frightened old woman’s memory from forty years ago.
A dying man’s letter written on painkillers.” His voice was still gentle.
Still kind.
“That’s not evidence, Claire.
