I looked up.
“Catherine didn’t just d*e,” Miriam said.
“The circumstances of her death were never fully explained.
Frank spent years trying to find out what really happened.
And what he eventually discovered — what he found out only recently — is the reason he sent you here tonight.”
She reached past me to the side table and lifted something I hadn’t noticed before.
A second envelope.
Thicker.
Heavier.
“He mailed this to me two weeks ago,” she said.
“He told me that if he d*ed before he could tell you himself, I was to give it to you in person.
Never by post.
Never through anyone else.”
She held it out.
My hand wouldn’t open the second envelope.
I sat there with it in my lap, the weight of it wrong — too heavy for paper, too light for everything it apparently contained — and I couldn’t make my fingers move.
