“I’ll send the full records to Daniel,” he continued. “There may be more to explain than I understood.”
“Then find out.”
“I will.”
We ended the call without saying goodbye.
That night, I read the messages again, looking for a clue that might explain Olivia’s careful phrasing.
The oldest payment in the packet was dated before she had officially become Alexander’s assistant.
It was a modest amount, assigned to a discretionary account with a name I did not recognize.
I turned the page, expecting to find a note or a fuller description.
Instead, I found a scanned copy of an old photograph clipped to the back of the file.
My mother stood outside the community clinic where she had once worked, younger than I had ever known her, one hand shading her eyes from the sun.
Beside her was a tall man with silver at his temples.
