My stepdad raised me after I lost my mother — just hours before he d*ed, he gripped my hand and whispered, “There’s something I’ve hidden from you your entire life.”

“What’s happened?”

I told him.

Not everything — not the birth certificate, not Catherine, not the thirty years of questions.

I told him about the nurse’s statement.

I told him about Gerald being alone with Frank.

I told him that Frank had deteriorated sharply afterward and that I needed someone to tell me whether any of this was worth reporting or whether I was a grieving daughter falling apart at midnight.

Paulson was quiet for a moment.

“Is your father still living?”

“I don’t know.” My throat tightened.

“I left the hospital to come here.

I haven’t called back yet.”

“Call the hospital.

Right now.

Then call me back.”

I called the hospital.

The nurse on Frank’s ward answered on the second ring.

I gave my name.

There was a pause — the kind of pause that has a shape — and then she said she was sorry.