“Why would she write my name on an envelope and leave it with someone else?”
“I don’t know.”
The answer was honest, but it did nothing to quiet the questions gathering in my mind.
I called Alexander.
He answered on the first ring.
“Daniel is here,” I said. “We’d like to see the envelope.”
“Of course. I can bring it to the house.”
“Please don’t open it.”
“I won’t.”
“And don’t bring it alone. Daniel should be there when we look at it.”
“I understand.”
He arrived an hour later, carrying a slim archival folder in both hands.
The envelope lay inside, protected by a sheet of tissue paper.
Alexander set it on the kitchen table and stepped back.
“I found it in a box of my father’s clinic papers,” he said. “The box had been stored in his study. I haven’t looked through the letters inside.”
