“I didn’t ask if you could.”
My father’s phone vibrated in his hand. He glanced at the screen, then stepped slightly away.
I watched his face change as he read.
“What is it?” I asked.
He did not answer.
Instead, he looked at Rebecca. “Call Marcus. Now.”
Rebecca’s calm vanished. “What happened?”
My father handed her the phone.
She read whatever was on the screen, and all the color drained from her face.
I stepped toward them. “Dad.”
He looked at me then, and I saw something in his eyes I had not seen since the hospital room where my mother took her last breath.
Fear.
“Eleanor,” he said carefully, “there’s something I should have told you years ago.”
The use of my full name made my pulse beat in my throat.
Rebecca handed me the phone.
On the screen was an email from an address I didn’t recognize. No greeting. No signature.
Only one attachment.
The file name was:
MARGARET_WILSON_ACCIDENT_REPORT_REVISED.pdf
My mother’s name.
My fingers went numb.
Beneath the attachment, one sentence had been typed in plain black letters.
Ask your new mother-in-law what really happened the night your mother died.
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