“Her name was Catherine.
Catherine Reyes.”
“Frank mentioned her once or twice over the years.” His voice was measured.
“It was a painful chapter for him.
She passed away very young.
He didn’t like to talk about it.”
“Did you know her well?”
“Briefly.
This was a long time ago, Claire.”
“The birth certificate had my name on it.” I said it quietly, the way Frank would have said something important.
“Catherine was my biological mother.”
Gerald’s expression moved through something complicated and landed on sympathy.
“Oh, sweetheart.
That must have been a shock.
Frank should have told you years ago — I always thought so.
But he was protecting you.
That was Frank.”
“From what, though?” I asked.
“What was he protecting me from?”
“From grief, I suppose.
From questions that didn’t have good answers.”
“I found a letter too,” I said.
“Frank wrote it recently.
While he was ill.”
Gerald picked up his mug again.
A small recalibration of his hands.
“He wrote about Catherine’s death,” I said.
“He had questions about it.
He’d been looking into it for a long time.”
“Frank had a lot of time to think in that hospital.” Gerald’s voice was gentle, careful.
“Illness does things to the mind, Claire.
It makes people look for reasons, for meaning.
It’s not uncommon to—”
“He found a nurse,” I said.
“From the night Catherine d*ed.
She wrote a statement.”
The mug went back to the table.
This time it stayed there.
“A statement about what?”
“About who was in the corridor that night.
Who went into the room.” I looked at him.
“Who was alone with Catherine before she d*ed.”
Gerald was quiet for a long moment.
Then something in his face changed.
