In July, Elise Vane called again.
She had called twice in the years since her father’s death, brief calls, the kind that establish that a connection has survived the event that created it. This call was different from the brief kind.
“He left something,” she said. “In his will. I found it last month when I was sorting through the final estate matters. I should have found it sooner.”
“What did he leave?” I said.
“A letter,” she said. “To both of you. To Damien and Isla Hargrove. He wrote it the week after Portland.” A pause. “I should have sent it immediately. I’m sorry for the delay.”
“It’s alright,” I said.
She sent it that day, scanned and emailed, and I printed it in the library on a Tuesday afternoon and read it before I gave it to Damien, because that was still my practice with
