Chapter 4: What He Knew About My Father
He stopped when he saw me turn.
For a moment we just looked at each other.
He was in his late sixties, heavyset, with a thick grey mustache and small eyes that didn't blink often enough.
He had the look of someone who was used to people stepping aside for him.
"You're Thomas's daughter," he said.
"Yes," I said.
"I'm Gerald Marsh." He said it like I should recognize the name.
"Your father and I were business partners.
For eleven years."
I knew the name.
My father had mentioned Gerald exactly twice in my childhood, both times in a tone I didn't understand until I was older.
The second time, he'd said, *Some men smile at you while they're counting what's yours.*
"I remember the name," I said.
"Good." He glanced at my coat pocket — the one with the envelopes — and then back at my face.
"Helen and I stayed in touch after Thomas passed.
She was a difficult woman, but we understood each other."
"Is that why you came today?"
"Partly." He took one step closer.
"I want to make sure there are no misunderstandings going forward."
"What kind of misunderstandings?"
"Helen had certain documents in her possession," he said.
"Business records from a long time ago.
They belong to me.
They were given to her for safekeeping and I'd like them returned."
I kept my expression neutral.
"I wasn't aware Helen had any business documents."
"She did." His voice was pleasant but his eyes weren't.
"I'd hate for old paperwork to cause confusion.
These things can be misread by people who don't have the full context."
"I'll keep that in mind," I said.
He studied me for a moment.
"She left you something today, didn't she?
The attorney."
"He offered his condolences," I said.
Something moved behind his eyes.
Not quite anger.
More like recalculation.
"Of course." He reached into his breast pocket and produced a card.
"If you come across anything — any documents, any records — please contact me directly.
Before anyone else."
I took the card.
He held on to it for half a second longer than necessary before he let go.
"It was good to meet you," he said.
"I'm sorry it was under these circumstances."
He walked back toward the grave.
He didn't look at Helen's headstone.
He looked at the ground around it, slowly, like he was checking whether something had been disturbed.
I got to my car and locked the door.
I sat there for a full minute before I opened Helen's letter again.
The second paragraph was the one I hadn't let myself absorb at the grave.
*Gerald Marsh was your father's partner and his closest friend.
He was also the one who found the discrepancy in the accounts first — because he put it there.
Your father found proof.
Gerald knew he'd found it.
Three weeks later, your father was gone.*
I read it twice.
Then I looked at Gerald's card in my hand.
On the back, someone had written in pencil — faint, almost invisible — a single word.
May you like
*Careful.*
It was Helen's handwriting.
