The missing sentence stayed with me as we drove back from the cottage.
Your father did not tell you the whole truth about the morning you left.
Lucas drove behind me, the wooden box secured on the passenger seat of my car. I had taken the photograph, my mother’s letter, and the cassette tape. The rest of the papers remained in the upstairs room, exactly where we had found them.
Neither of us had wanted to disturb anything until we understood what we were looking for.
At my childhood home, I placed the photograph on the kitchen table and made coffee. Lucas stood near the window, watching the first drops of rain gather on the glass.
“What happened that morning?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Do you remember seeing my father?”
“Not at the train station.”
“Did he come to your house?”
“No. At least, I don’t remember him coming.”
