Chapter 9 - The Evidence That Disappeared
My mother refused to answer any more questions.
She claimed she was exhausted.
She said the past was complicated.
She begged me to concentrate on my recovery.
But I had spent twenty years living with unanswered questions.
I wasn't going to accept another excuse.
"Mom, where is the envelope?"
She rose from the chair.
"Please don't do this."
"Where is it?"
She looked at Nigel.
"You promised me she would never know."
I turned toward my husband.
"What promise?"
Nigel remained silent.
My mother stared at him.
"You told me the past was buried."
He stood.
"I told you I wouldn't lie to her anymore."
She laughed bitterly.
"After twenty years?"
I looked between them.
For the first time, I understood how many conversations had taken place behind my back.
"Both of you, leave."
"Claire—" Nigel began.
"Get out."
They obeyed.
The door closed.
And I sat alone with the photograph.
For twenty years, I had imagined that regaining my sight would make everything easier.
Instead, I could suddenly see the people who had deceived me.
That afternoon, I called my best friend, Rachel Morgan.
Rachel was a civil attorney.
We had met in college, and she had remained one of the few people who knew every part of my life.
When I told her what Nigel had confessed, she was silent for several seconds.
"Claire, you need to document everything."
"Do you think this was intentional?"
"I don't know. But if there was financial fraud connected to your accident, we need to find out."
Rachel visited the hospital that evening.
She helped me organize the photograph, the anonymous letters, and the messages I had received.
Then she asked a question I hadn't considered.
"Who sent you the warnings?"
I shook my head.
"I don't know."
"Someone knew Nigel's real identity."
"And someone knew my mother was involved."
Rachel studied the envelopes.
"The Braille note suggests the sender understood how to communicate with you."
That narrowed the possibilities.
Nigel.
My mother.
Someone from my rehabilitation center.
Or someone else who had been watching our family.
Rachel examined the second envelope.
A small return-address label had been torn away, leaving only part of a postal code.
She took a photograph.
"I'll see what I can find."
The following morning, Rachel called me.
Her voice sounded unusually tense.
"Claire, I traced the shipping receipt."
"Who sent it?"
"Someone used the name Thomas Whitmore."
My father's name.
I gripped the phone.
"That's impossible."
"I know."
"My father has been dead for years."
Rachel hesitated.
"Claire, there's something else."
May you like
"What?"
"The package was mailed from an address connected to your father's old business partner."
