I closed the box.
“Did she know you survived?”
“Yes.”
“Then why did she never tell me?”
His face became still.
“Because your mother did not die from illness, Vivian.”
I stared at him.
The official story was a sudden aneurysm.
There had been no autopsy because my grandmother refused one.
Adrian took a breath.
“Your mother was murdered.”
The terrace seemed to tilt.
He continued before I could speak.
“She was preparing to testify. Beatrice discovered it.”
“Beatrice killed her too?”
“I believed so for twenty-one years.”
“Believed?”
He slid a sealed evidence bag across the table.
Inside was an old photograph taken outside a hospital.
My mother stood near the entrance.
Beside her was a younger Beatrice.
And behind them, partially hidden by a newspaper, stood my grandmother.
