Chapter 10

“Why did my father hire you?” I asked. “How did he even find you?”

Sophia glanced toward the window.

“Your father called me on a Tuesday in April. He said he had a problem he didn’t want to be right about. He asked me to look into a man named Ethan Reyes, and he asked me to be thorough, and he asked me to be kind about it, if it turned out to be nothing.”

She paused.

“It was not nothing.”

“He was worried about me.”

“He was terrified for you,” she said. “And he spent his last weeks making sure you would never have to go through this alone. Do you know what he said to me on the phone, the last time we spoke? He said, ‘If something happens to me, make sure my daughter knows she wasn’t foolish. She was loved. That’s a very different thing.’”

I covered my mouth.

That afternoon, an unfamiliar number called.

“Claire? This is Dr. Naomi Bell.”

The therapist.

I had seen her four times after Dad’s diagnosis, sitting in a soft green chair twisting tissues in my hands.

Ethan had insisted on the appointments.

At the time, I thought he cared.

“I’ve been waiting to hear from you,” she said carefully. “And I couldn’t call you first. I’m bound by confidentiality, and it wasn’t appropriate for me to contact you until you or an authorized person reached out. But I read the news this morning, and I want you to know that I have already spoken with Detective Morales.”

I sat down.

“About what?”

“About the fact that your husband asked me, on two separate occasions, to put in writing that you were confused, forgetful, and unable to manage your affairs.”

Her voice stayed gentle but firm.

“I refused both times. I told him that everything I had observed was a woman in grief, and that grief is not incapacity. He became quite insistent. He called the clinic four times. I documented all of it.”

I closed my eyes.

“Claire, I want you to hear me. You were the clearest person in that room every time. Sad, yes. Exhausted, yes. But clear. Someone trying to manipulate you into doubting yourself would have wanted you to think otherwise.”

I slowly exhaled.

“Thank you,” I said. “For refusing.”

“It was the easiest decision I’ve ever made,” she said. “If you’d like to talk sometime, my door is open. No charge. Not for this.”

On Sunday afternoon, a taxi stopped outside Dad’s house.

I was on the porch sorting through old photographs when the rear door opened.

A woman stepped out holding a shoebox against her chest.