Chapter 7
Near the bottom was a message from Evelyn.
I don’t want money. I want to know why my husband’s name appears on documents he never signed.
I stopped.
“Her husband?”
Mateo nodded.
“Daniel Mercer. Died six years ago.”
“What documents?”
“Property transfers.”
“Forged?”
“We don’t know.”
There it was again.
I stood.
“I want to talk to Evelyn.”
“She knows Clara was hurt.”
“How?”
“I told her.”
“You contacted her?”
“You told me to find her.”
“I didn’t tell you to frighten an elderly woman at breakfast.”
“I didn’t frighten anybody. I called her.”
I glanced toward him.
Sometimes I forgot Mateo possessed more restraint than everyone who worked for me combined.
“She’ll meet you,” he said. “But not here.”
“Where?”
“Her house.”
I had not left the hospital since Clara arrived.
Walking outside felt wrong.
Chicago had gone on without noticing that my entire life had cracked open overnight.
Taxis moved along the street.
People carried coffee.
A woman in running clothes stopped at a crosswalk and checked her watch.
Somewhere, a delivery driver argued with a parking attendant.
Ordinary life.
I had always underestimated ordinary life.
My driver took us south.
As the skyline shifted behind us, I watched neighborhoods pass through the tinted glass and thought about Clara making this same journey the night before.
Had she been nervous?
Had she planned to tell me when she returned?
Or had she stopped believing I deserved to know?
The redbrick house from the photograph appeared forty minutes later.
It was even smaller than I expected.
Evelyn Mercer opened the door before we knocked.
She had silver hair cut neatly at her jaw and wore a navy cardigan over a white blouse.
She looked at Mateo.
Then at me.
Her expression did not change.
“Mr. Valente.”
“Mrs. Mercer.”
“I’m glad your wife survived surgery.”
The simplicity of the sentence disarmed me.
“Thank you.”
She stepped aside.
“Come in.”
The living room was warm and crowded with books, photographs, and furniture that looked collected rather than purchased all at once.
A framed picture near the fireplace showed Evelyn beside a tall Black man with a broad smile.
Daniel, I assumed.
On another shelf was a photograph of Clara.
I stopped.
It had been taken in this room.
Clara sat beside Evelyn at the dining table, laughing.
There were folders spread between them.
“You knew my wife well.”
Evelyn followed my gaze.