Chương 8
She looked up quickly.
Thomas's car was parked behind hers.
Her first reaction was anger.
Then confusion.
Then something worse.
Relief.
She hated that she felt relieved.
Thomas stepped into the garage holding a paper bag.
"I brought coffee," he said.
Elena stared at him.
"You followed me?"
"No."
The answer came too quickly.
She raised an eyebrow.
Thomas looked away.
"Not exactly."
Despite herself, she almost smiled.
"That is a terrible answer."
"I know."
"You are getting worse at lying."
"I was never good at it."
He held out the coffee.
"I guessed you would not have eaten."
She looked at the bag.
"I hate that you know things about me."
"I know."
"Stop saying that."
"Okay."
The simple agreement caught her off guard.
Thomas placed the bag on the workbench.
He did not ask what she found.
He did not reach for the letter.
He waited.
That patience made her more uncomfortable than pressure would have.
"My father wrote this."
Thomas nodded.
"Does that surprise you?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because your father was always the person who wanted records."
Elena looked at him.
"You remember him like he was still alive."
Thomas looked at the floor.
"Some people stay that way."
The answer carried something personal.
Something he did not explain.
She looked back at the letter.
"My father knew."
"Yes."
"He knew about Sarah."
"Yes."
"And he still let me grow up without knowing."
Thomas did not defend him.
That mattered.
"He made a choice."
"So did my mother."
"Yes."
"And you."
Thomas accepted the accusation.
"Yes."
The garage became quiet.
Not peaceful.
Just quiet.
Elena folded the letter carefully.
"Where is the rest?"
Thomas looked at her.
"Rest?"
"My father would not write one page."
"No."
"Where are the documents he had?"
Thomas hesitated.
This time she noticed.
"You know."
"I know where he wanted them to go."
"That is not the same thing."
"No."
"Where?"
Thomas rubbed his hand across his face.
"He gave them to someone before he died."
"Who?"
Thomas looked toward the street.
"Your father did not trust many people."
"Who did he trust?"
Thomas answered softly.
"Your mother."
Elena closed her eyes.
For a moment, she felt exhausted by the unfairness of it.
Everyone had pieces.
Everyone had reasons.
Everyone had explanations.
And somehow she was the only person who had been expected to live without the truth.
"My mother had them?"
"Maybe."
"Maybe?"
"Your father believed she did."
Elena looked at him.
"What happened after that?"
Thomas picked up the coffee bag and moved it aside.
"Margaret disappeared for three days."
Elena froze.
"When?"
"Two months before your father died."
"She told me she was visiting her cousin."
Thomas nodded.
"That was what she told everyone."
"Where did she go?"
Thomas looked at the envelope in Elena's hand.
"To find out whether the truth was worse than the secret."
Elena did not answer immediately.
She watched Thomas's face for the kind of expression people wore when they were about to say something they had practiced avoiding.
There was no satisfaction there.
No fear of being caught.
Only exhaustion.
"She went looking for the truth," Elena said quietly.
"And what did she find?"
Thomas looked at the floor.
"I don't know."
She almost laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Because every person in her life seemed to have a talent for knowing exactly enough to hurt her and not enough to help her.
"You don't know."
"I know what she told me."
"Which was?"
Thomas leaned against the workbench.
"That she found something she was not prepared to see."
Elena waited.
He did not continue.
"That is it?"
"That is what she said."
"People always leave out the important part."
"Sometimes because they are hiding it."
"And sometimes?"
"Sometimes because they are afraid saying it out loud makes it real."
She hated that answer because it sounded like something her father would have said.
She hated even more that it sounded reasonable.
Elena opened the letter again and looked at the final sentence.
To find out whether the truth was worse than the secret.
Her father's handwriting seemed different now.
Not because the letters had changed.
Because she had.
"Where did my mother go after those three days?"
Thomas hesitated.
"Elena."
"Where?"
"She came back."
"That was not my question."
He looked at her.
The silence between them became a choice neither of them wanted to make.
"She came back with a folder."
Elena felt her grip tighten around the letter.
"Where is it?"
"I don't know."
"You said my father believed she had the documents."
"He did."
"Then why don't you know where they are?"
Thomas rubbed his eyes.
"Because your father died before he could tell me everything."
"You were there?"
The question came out sharper than she intended.
Thomas looked away.
"At the hospital."
"You never told me that."
"You never asked."
The answer landed harder than an accusation.
Because it was true.
She had spent years avoiding every detail about her father's last days.
She had avoided the hospital.
The room.
The machines.
The people who had watched him disappear.
She had built a wall around that time and then blamed everyone else for not climbing over it.
"When?"
"The night before he died."
Elena swallowed.
"What did he say?"
Thomas was quiet for a long time.
Then he reached into his coat pocket.
He pulled out a folded piece of paper.
It was old.
Not as old as the letter.
But old enough that the edges had softened.
"He gave me this."
Elena stared at it.
"You had something from him this whole time?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Thomas looked uncomfortable.
A rare thing for him.
"Because he asked me not to give it to you unless your mother told you the truth herself."
Her anger returned so quickly it almost made her dizzy.
"So he trusted her more than he trusted me."
"No."
May you like
"That is exactly what it sounds like."
"He trusted that you loved her enough to hear it from her."
