“Her name is Clara Whitcomb,” he said finally. “She was your mother’s closest friend.”
My mother’s closest friend.
I had never heard her name.
“Why don’t I know her?” I whispered.
Adrian’s face was grim. “That is exactly what I intend to find out.”
That night, pain kept me awake.
Not the physical kind, though there was enough of that. It was the pain of discovering hidden rooms inside your own life. My mother had a closest friend. Victor had known enough about Adrian to intercept letters. My son’s name had been stolen at my own memorial.
And somewhere in Denver, an old woman had handed my husband an envelope and spoken of truth.
At two in the morning, I woke to the sound of voices outside my room.
One belonged to Adrian.
The other was Dr. Walsh.
“She’s stable,” the doctor said, “but stress is not an abstract concern. I allowed the livestream because she insisted, and because I understand the psychological importance. But this cannot continue indefinitely.”
