Chapter 7
“I did.”
“What did he say?”
“That you had chosen a new life and did not want contact.”
The room blurred for a moment.
Margaret sat down.
“I believed him because I wanted to believe he was protecting Ethan. But after I read the letters, I began to question everything.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was ashamed.”
“Shame is not an excuse.”
“No.” Her voice broke slightly. “But it is the truth.”
I lowered the letters.
“Who gave them to you?”
“I don’t know. They were left in the west-wing corridor.”
“By someone who had access.”
“Yes.”
“Who had access to the west wing?”
“Alexander. His father’s estate manager. Rebecca’s father, before his death. And one other person.”
“Who?”
Margaret looked toward the door.
“Your former sister-in-law, Elena.”
I remembered Elena Russo—Alexander’s older cousin and family attorney. She had been present on the night I was thrown out, though she had said almost nothing. Two weeks later, she had moved to Geneva.
“She’s still with Russo Global?”
“On paper. She resigned last year.”
“Why?”
Margaret hesitated.
“Because she discovered that someone had been using her credentials.”
“For what?”
“To access archived legal files.”
I slipped the letters back into the bundle.
“Where is she now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does Alexander?”
“He believes she is in Lisbon.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
A floorboard creaked outside.
Margaret’s eyes moved toward the door.
“Did you tell Alexander about the letters?”
“Not yet.”
“Why invite me here if you already knew?”
“Because Ethan asked for you. And because I thought if you came, you might listen before deciding what you thought of us.”
“I’ve listened for ten years.”
“I know.”
The apology hung between us.
Not enough to repair anything.
Enough to begin.
When I returned to the dining room, the table had been cleared. Ethan sat near the Christmas tree, turning the ornament I had brought between his fingers.
Alexander stood by the windows.
Rebecca was gone.
“Where is she?” I asked.
“She said she was leaving,” Alexander replied.
“Did you stop her?”
“No.”
I walked to Ethan.
He held out the ornament. It was a white silk star embroidered with gold thread. In the center, I had stitched a small letter E.
“For me?”
“For you.”
He touched the letter with one finger.
“It’s beautiful.”
“I made it years ago.”
“Before you knew I would call?”
“I made one every year.”
He looked at me.