Maria looked at me.

“And after your mother died?”

Arthur paused.

“Gabriel believed Thomas Hale carried responsibility.”

Every trace of warmth seemed to leave the room.

My fingers tightened around the letter.

“Responsible in what way?”

“He never had proof.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

Arthur looked toward the fireplace.

“Gabriel believed the pressure surrounding your mother’s attempt to leave made her condition worse. He blamed your father for refusing to let her go earlier.”

I studied Arthur’s expression.

“That’s everything?”

He didn’t answer fast enough.

“Arthur.”

“That’s everything Gabriel could prove.”

Could prove.

Not believed.

Not knew.

Could prove.

Maria noticed it too.

She leaned closer.

“What did he suspect?”

Arthur looked toward her.

“That something had happened with Evelyn’s medication.”

The clock on the wall ticked once.

Twice.

Three times.

I remained still.

“Because of my father?”

“I don’t know.”

“Gabriel believed that?”

“At first.”

“At first?”

Arthur nodded toward the notebook.

“He later changed his mind.”

I pulled Gabriel’s notebook closer to me.

We had already gone through dozens of pages.

Warehouse numbers.

Vehicle registrations.

Initials.

Dates.

One name appeared repeatedly.

V.R.

Vincent Russo.

But closer to the back, another pair of initials kept appearing.

E.B.

I’d assumed they represented some company.

Some location.

Some accountant connected to the old operation.

Maria began carefully turning the pages.

“Here.”

She stopped at a section we’d overlooked because two pages had become stuck together near the binding.

Arthur leaned forward.

Maria carefully separated them.

A photograph slipped free.

It landed face down.

I reached for it.

Arthur said, “Daniel.”