She held my gaze for a long moment.
Then she said it.
“Gerald Marsh.”
The room didn’t tilt this time.
It went completely still.
Gerald Marsh was my mother Susan’s older brother.
My uncle.
The man who had sat at every Christmas table, every birthday, every family gathering I could remember.
The man who had pressed fifty-dollar bills into my hand at graduations and called me his favorite niece and danced with me at my wedding.
“That’s not possible,” I said.
“Frank didn’t believe it either.
Not at first.”
“Gerald loved Frank.
They were close — they were friends long before Frank married Susan.”
“Yes,” Miriam said quietly.
“They were.”
Something in her tone made me go cold.
“Open the envelope, Claire.”
I opened it.
Frank’s handwriting covered four pages, front and back.
His letters were shakier than I remembered — the illness had already been in his hands when he wrote this — but the words were precise.
Deliberate.
The handwriting of a man who knew he was writing something that would outlast him.
I read.
Frank had met Catherine Reyes at twenty-three.
Gerald Marsh had introduced them — Gerald, who was two years older, who had grown up with Frank, who had been the best man at their wedding.
What Frank had not known, not then, was that Gerald had been in love with Catherine first.
That Gerald had introduced them believing Catherine would eventually choose him.
That when she chose Frank instead, something in Gerald had gone very quiet and very wrong.
Catherine’s death had been ruled a complication of childbirth.
Hemorrhage.
