“I need to ask you about Claire.”
Silence.
Not confusion.
Silence.
That was answer enough.
“Aunt Margaret?”
“Where did you hear that name?”
“My father.”
“Your father is dead.”
“He left me something.”
A shaky breath traveled through the phone.
“What did he leave?”
“A photograph.”
She said nothing.
“And a note.”
Still nothing.
“He said Claire was my sister.”
When Margaret finally spoke, her voice had changed.
“You shouldn’t discuss this over the telephone.”
Stephen and I exchanged a look.
“Why?”
“Come here.”
“When?”
“Now.”
Forty-five minutes later, Stephen and I stood outside the house where I’d spent countless childhood Christmases.
Margaret opened the door before we knocked.
She was seventy-one now, small and silver-haired, with the same bright blue eyes my father had possessed.
Her gaze went immediately to Stephen.
“Who’s this?”
“My—”
I stopped.
I didn’t know what Stephen was anymore.
“Friend.”
Margaret looked between us.
“Does he know?”
