“Possibly.”
“Cousin?”
“Possibly.”
“Then why did Claire leave?”
Mercer’s expression softened.
“Because she misinterpreted it.”
My heart sank.
“She thought Peter was my father.”
“Yes.”
Daniel closed his eyes.
“Oh God.”
Claire had babysat Daniel.
She had known his parents.
She had discovered a report suggesting a secret relationship between our families.
“And she confronted Dad,” I said.
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“That he didn’t know.”
“Did she believe him?”
“Eventually.”
“Then why disappear?”
Mercer looked at Claire’s letter.
“Because by then she’d made accusations she deeply regretted.”
“What accusations?”
“Against your mother.”
I swallowed.
My mother died when I was eleven.
Most of my memories of her were warm and fragmented.
Perfume.
Piano music.
Her hands kneading bread.
“Claire accused her of having an affair?”
“Yes.”
My chest hurt.
“Was it true?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did my father?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did anyone?”
“Claire may have learned later. She never told me.”
