I read the sentence again.
Richard Williams refused to return what had been entrusted to him.
My hands tightened around the photocopied page.
It was the first piece of evidence I'd found that directly accused my father.
Not a rumor.
Not an anonymous message.
Not someone's vague recollection of eighteen years ago.
A written record.
And somehow, it made everything more confusing.
Because I'd already seen another record.
RETURNED JUNE 18.
Then there was the photograph.
My father.
Elliot.
The message I'd received.
HE DIDN'T GIVE IT TO YOUR FATHER. YOUR FATHER GAVE IT TO HIM.
And now this.
REFUSED TO RETURN.
Which one was the lie?
I looked around the dark archive room.
The envelope was still in my hand.
Whoever had left it wanted me to find it.
That much was obvious.
But
