“He’s really dead,” Tessa said, looking down at the headstone. “I’m looking right at the grave.”
Janey exhaled heavily, and Tessa was just glad her sister had picked up her call. “And you’re in Boston?”
“That’s right.” Tessa looked up and out toward the ocean. The cemetery where Richard Friedman was buried sat on a hill, and she felt like she could see the entirety of the world from this single vantage point. “If he’s not Richard Friedman, who is he?”
“He could be anyone,” Janey said, the desperation and helplessness in her voice painting through Tessa with thick, dark strokes. She had not told her sister why she’d decided to look into the birth certificates and other legal documentation of Riggs. She’d simply said she’d “done some digging,” and discovered that Richard Friedman was in f
