The envelope arrived on a Tuesday.
Plain white, no return address, Adam's name written in careful script. He found it wedged between the garage's front door and the frame, pushed through the mail slot sometime during the night.
He opened it in the office, alone.
Inside was a single sheet of paper, folded twice. The handwriting was neat, feminine, controlled.
“Dear Adam,
You don't know me. My name is Maria. I'm the woman you found at the cliff. The one who cut the power at the hotel.
I'm writing this from my cell. Tomorrow, I'll be transferred to federal prison. I don't know when I'll have another chance to send a letter.
There's something I need to tell you. Something about your father.”
Adam's hands tightened on the paper.
“Before Lucia was arrested, she told me a story. About a
