Eleanor Grant.
Not Mrs. Grant.
Eleanor.
Henry cracked the door only wide enough to take it.
The man did not speak. He simply gave a slight nod, returned to the car, and left with his companion.
The sedan rolled down the drive and disappeared beyond the hedges.
For several seconds, no one moved.
Then Henry locked the door again.
I opened the envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
Black and white.
Grainy.
Old.
At first, I did not understand what I was seeing. A young man stood beside a marina railing, smiling into the sun. He was handsome in that careless way rich boys often are.
Thomas.
Not the Thomas I had married, but the version from before. Before the company, before the children, before the navy suits and charity speeches.
Beside him stood a young woman with dark hair.
She was holding a baby.
On the back, someone had written three words.
Ask him about Daniel.
I read them once.
Then again.
Brooke stepped closer.
“What is it?”
I handed her the photograph.
Her eyes moved over the image, then widened.
“No,” she said.
“You know the name?”
She looked at me, and for the first time since I had met her, Brooke Sanders seemed truly shaken.
“Daniel Price,” she whispered. “He’s the man Thomas has been paying for twenty years.”
The greenhouse went silent except for the faint drip of water.
“Paying for what?” I asked.
Brooke’s lips parted.
But before she could answer, my phone rang.