Chapter 3: The Man by the Gate
I folded the letter and slid it back into the envelope without looking up again.
My hands were still shaking, but I kept my face still.
I didn't know who was watching or what they were looking for, but Helen's warning was clear enough.
*Don't let them know you've opened this.*
I tucked both envelopes into my coat pocket and turned toward the attorney.
"Did she tell you what was in the letter?" I asked quietly.
"No," he said.
"She only told me when to deliver it and to whom."
"Did she tell you anything else?
Anything at all?"
He hesitated.
Just barely.
"She said you would know what to do with it.
She said you were smarter than people gave you credit for."
I didn't know what to do with that.
Helen had spent the better part of my childhood making me feel like the opposite was true.
I thanked him and walked slowly toward the gate, keeping my pace even.
I didn't look back at the two acquaintances.
I counted my steps instead.
Twelve to the path.
Eight more to the gate.
A hand touched my arm.
I stopped.
It was a woman I didn't recognize.
Sixties, maybe.
Silver hair cut short.
She was wearing a dark green coat that looked expensive and slightly out of place for a graveside service this small.
"You're her daughter," she said.
Not a question.
"Stepdaughter," I said.
She nodded like the distinction didn't matter.
"My name is Vera.
I knew your father."
Something shifted in my chest.
"I'm sorry — how?"
"We worked together.
Years ago.
Before he married Helen." She glanced past me toward the grave, then back.
"I almost didn't come today.
But I needed to see if you were real."
"If I was real?"
"He talked about you constantly," she said.
"His daughter.
He called you his girl." Her voice dropped.
"In the last weeks before he passed, he called me twice.
He was frightened.
He said someone was going through his papers.
He said he'd found something in the business accounts that didn't belong."
My mouth went dry.
"What kind of something?"
"He didn't say.
He was going to meet with a lawyer." She looked at me steadily.
"He never made that meeting."
The wind moved through the cemetery.
A few dead leaves scraped across the path between us.
"Vera," I said carefully.
"Were you close to Helen?"
"No." Her answer came fast.
"Helen didn't like me.
She made that very clear after your father passed." She reached into her bag and pulled out a small card.
"I've kept his last voicemail.
I never deleted it.
I don't know why — I just couldn't." She pressed the card into my hand.
"If you find something in whatever she left you, call me.
I'll tell you everything I remember."
I looked down at the card.
A phone number.
No address.
When I looked up, Vera was already walking away toward the far end of the cemetery, moving quickly for a woman her age, like someone who had learned to leave before they were asked to.
I put the card in my pocket next to the envelopes.
Behind me, I heard footsteps on the gravel path.
Slow.
Deliberate.
May you like
I turned around.
The man who had been staring at me from the grave was fifteen feet away and closing.
