And there was a letter from my mother telling me that nearly everything I understood about my childhood might have been shaped around a lie.

I lifted the receiver.

Arthur shut his eyes.

“Hello?”

Silence.

Then breathing.

Slow.

Unhurried.

A man’s voice came through.

Older.

Rough around the edges.

“Daniel Hale.”

I could feel Maria watching me.

“Who’s asking?”

A pause.

Then the man said something that caused the color to disappear from Arthur’s face.

“Ask Arthur why your mother planned to leave New York the night she died.”

The connection ended.

For several seconds, nobody spoke.

I lowered the receiver.

Arthur sat down.

Not gracefully.

He simply appeared to lose the strength in his legs.

I stared at him.

“My mother died in a hospital.”

“Yes.”

“She’d been ill.”

“Yes.”

“She wasn’t planning to go anywhere.”

Arthur rubbed both hands across his face.

Maria placed Sofia carefully on the leather sofa and tucked the blanket around her.

Then she crossed the room.

She didn’t remain behind me.