My pulse quickened. “Give it to me.”
The envelope had no stamp, no return address. Only my name, written in blue ink.
Elena Walsh.
Not Moretti.
My fingers trembled as I opened it.
Inside was a single photograph.
At first, I didn’t understand what I was seeing. It was old, slightly grainy, taken from a distance. A woman stood outside a brownstone beneath an awning, one hand raised to shield her face from rain.
The woman was me.
Except the date printed in the corner was impossible.
It had been taken nine months ago.
Before Adrian had asked for separation.
Before the first threat.
Before anyone should have been watching me.
On the back, someone had written one sentence.
Ask Adrian what happened the night your father died.
The room went completely still.
My father had died in a car accident two years before I met Adrian.
At least, that was what I had always believed.
I looked up at him, and for the first time since he walked into the clinic, Adrian Moretti looked not broken, not angry, but afraid of me.