He knew.
He knew about the letter.
Then he said the one thing that made Serena cover her mouth.
“Your grandmother didn’t die seven years ago because she was sick.”
I stared at the door.
“What are you talking about?”
The man smiled through the glass.
“She was trying to expose the trust.”
Then he slipped a photograph underneath the door.
I picked it up.
It was a picture of my grandmother.
Alive.
Standing outside a bank.
Taken two days before the official date of her death.
And standing beside her…
was Margaret Mercer.
On the back of the photograph were five handwritten words:
Ask Margaret who the father is.
I looked at Serena.
“What father?”
She didn’t answer.
Because at that exact moment, my phone rang again.
This time, it was Margaret.
I answered.
She didn’t say hello.
She simply whispered:
“Claire… your grandmother wasn’t your grandmother.”
Then the line went dead.
