“Whatever Frank wrote in that letter,” he said, “he was a sick old man who spent thirty years turning a tragedy into a conspiracy because he couldn’t accept that sometimes people just d*e.
I loved Frank.
I love you.
And I am telling you, as someone who has been part of this family your entire life, that you should put those papers away and let your father rest in peace.”
He picked up his coat.
“Don’t do this, Claire.
For your own sake.”
He walked to the door.
“Gerald.”
He stopped but didn’t turn.
“Frank knew you were coming back to the hospital that afternoon,” I said.
“He sent me away before you arrived.
He wanted me safe.”
A long pause.
“Goodbye, Claire.” He opened the door.
“Call me when you’re thinking clearly.”
The door closed behind him.
I reached under the collar of my shirt and pressed the small button Paulson had shown me.
