Chapter 7: Frank's Letter
The envelope arrived the following morning.
It was a plain white envelope, sealed, with my name written on the front in Frank's handwriting.
Just Ruth.
No last name.
The way he'd written notes to me for forty years — on birthday cards, on slips of paper tucked into my coat pocket, on the back of grocery lists when he wanted to say something he found hard to say out loud.
I sat at the small table by the hotel window and held it for a moment before I opened it.
The letter was two pages, handwritten.
His handwriting was steady.
He had written it carefully.
*Ruth,*
*If you're reading this, then the thing I was afraid of has happened, and Patricia has decided you're ready to know.
I'm sorry I didn't tell you before I left.
I didn't want to worry you over something I hoped would come to nothing.*
*Six months ago, Claire contacted me.
She said she wanted to repair things between us.
I wanted to believe her.
You know I did.
But she called three times in two weeks, and each time the conversation turned, eventually, to the house.
To what we owned.
To what would happen to it when we were gone.
I didn't say much.
I listened.*
*Then a man named Stephen Crane called me directly.
He said he was a business associate of Claire's and that he had a proposition.
He wanted to develop the land our house sits on.
He said Claire had mentioned it might become available.
I told him it would not.
He was very polite about it.
That politeness worried me more than anger would have.*
*I flew out because I needed to see what Claire was actually involved in.
I needed to understand how serious it was before I decided what to do.
I also needed to see whether there was any part of my daughter left inside whatever she'd become.*
*In the inside pocket of the grey jacket I left in the wardrobe at home, there is a USB drive.
On it are recordings of two phone calls — one with Crane, one with a man named Hargreaves, who I later understood was the solicitor they intended to use.
I recorded them on my phone before I left.
I didn't know if they would be useful.
I hoped they wouldn't be needed.*
*If they are needed: give them to Patricia.
She will know what to do.*
*I love you.
I have loved you for forty years and I have never once regretted a single day of it.
Whatever happens with the house, with the will, with any of it — none of that is what mattered.
You are what mattered.*
*Don't let them make you feel small.
You are not small.*
*Frank*
I read it twice.
Then I folded it carefully along its original creases and put it back in the envelope.
I called Patricia.
"The grey jacket," I said.
"In the wardrobe.
There's a USB drive in the inside pocket."
"I'll send someone to the house today," she said immediately.
"Ruth — are you alright?"
"Yes." And I meant it.
"He recorded them, Patricia.
Before he left.
He recorded Crane and Hargreaves."
A sharp intake of breath.
"If those recordings capture what I think they might—"
"I know."
"This moves from civil to crjminal very quickly."
"I know that too."
"I'm going to contact a colleague who handles fraud cases.
Today.
Before I do anything else."
"Do it," I said.
I hung up and sat for a moment with the letter in my hands.
May you like
Then I stood up, put on my coat, and went to find Claire.
It was time for a different kind of conversation.
