The sentence entered the room gently.
It did not feel gentle.
I turned toward my father.
“You married me to the son of the man you thought killed my mother?”
“I never believed Carlo Santoro was responsible.”
“You just said you didn’t know what to believe.”
“I knew there was no proof.”
“That is not the same thing.”
Arthur moved toward me.
I stepped back.
He stopped.
“The accusation was designed to create a war between people who were already watching each other,” he said. “Your mother had discovered something. I don’t know what. She called me on the night she died and told me she had documents that could destroy several careers.”
“Whose careers?”
“I don’t know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it is the truth.”
Niko spoke for the first time.
“The file resurfaced two weeks ago.”
I looked at him.
“What file?”
“A collection of financial records, letters, and photographs connected to your mother.”
