“When?”
“Years ago. My father took me there.”
“Why?”
Alexander looked down at the photograph.
“My father funded part of the clinic’s work. He said they needed help with equipment and patient services.”
“That doesn’t explain why he took you.”
“No,” he said. “It doesn’t.”
I waited.
He glanced toward the window, then back at me.
“He didn’t tell me much. He said the clinic mattered to someone he respected.”
“Was that my mother?”
“I think so.”
“You think so?”
“I was young. My father was careful about what he shared, especially when it involved other people’s
private lives.”
I heard the echo of the note on the back of the photograph.
He promised to keep it secret.
“Did he tell you what he was keeping secret?”
“No.”
“Did he ever tell you to look after me?”
Alexander’s gaze lifted to mine.
The pause was long enough to become an answer before he spoke.
