The room seemed to grow unnaturally quiet.
I heard the faint hum of the heating system, the distant roll of a cart in the hallway, Lucas shifting his weight near the window.
“What do you mean, you didn’t write it?”
“I mean I never sent you a letter asking you not to contact me.”
I reached into my handbag with shaking hands. I had carried the letter for forty years, though I couldn’t have explained why. It had moved with me from apartment to apartment, folded inside an old recipe book, then tucked into a file of birth certificates and insurance papers.
I removed the envelope.
The paper had yellowed at the edges. Douglas’s name was written in my handwriting beneath it, because I had labeled it years ago.
I handed it to him.
He took it carefully.
His eyes moved across the page.
“I’ve never seen this.”
