“When did he ask?”
“Last month.”
“Before he called me?”
“Yes.”
“Did he know he was dying?”
“He knew his illness had progressed.”
Lucas looked away.
Margaret gathered the papers.
“There is one more item.”
From the folder, she removed a small envelope.
The handwriting on it was Douglas’s.
My name covered the front.
My fingers went cold.
“He wrote this recently,” Margaret said. “He told me he didn’t want you to read it unless you came willingly.”
I took the envelope.
“Why didn’t he give it to me at the hospital?”
“Because he wanted to speak to you first.”
I turned to Lucas.
“Did you know about this?”
“No.”
I held the envelope against my chest.
“I need to see him.”
Margaret nodded.
“I’ll leave the statement with you.”
Lucas picked up the box.
“I’ll drive.”
The hospital seemed quieter than it had the day before. Rain traced thin lines down the lobby windows, and the polished floor reflected the muted lights overhead.
