The Road in the Rain

The attorney's office had a blue rug, a plant that needed water, and a bowl of sweets Mia would have considered a strong argument for attending.

Clara was glad she had stayed at the estate.

Across the table, Lydia Mercer opened a slim inventory.

"My father handled Matteo Duca's personal papers," she said. "When he retired, our firm continued that work. Mr. Duca had consolidated older material here before his death."

Lorenzo nodded. "Including things from my mother's bank box?"

"Yes. Some original financial records, private correspondence, and later additions your father wanted kept with them."

Clara watched Lydia lay out three folders.

There was something almost insulting about how ordinary they looked. She had expected the weight of twenty-eight years to require something larger.

Lydia explained that she had reviewed the request and arranged for them to inspect the family material. Certain matters would require separate follow-up, but the photographs and correspondence weren't being withheld from them.

"These records concern Samuel Voss," she said, sliding forward the first folder. "The other two are personal. I'll leave you to them."

When the door closed, Clara opened the first folder.

She didn't understand every column. She understood Rebecca's handwriting in the margins.

Check invoice against delivery.

Same amount twice.

Ask E. about this account.

Her mother had written notes on their grocery lists in exactly the same cramped hand.

Lorenzo recognized company names and dates. He read without talking for several minutes.

Then he turned a page toward her.

"Voss used duplicate invoices. Payments went to companies he controlled. Rebecca noticed."

"Did he threaten her?"

A typed account of an internal meeting recorded that Voss had visited Rebecca after work and demanded to know what she had copied. A second note, in Eleanor's hand, described Rebecca arriving at the house frightened that he knew her address.

Clara sat back.

"She wasn't imagining it."

"No."

There were records of Matteo removing Voss, recovering funds, and making arrangements that ended his access to the businesses. Clara didn't ask Lorenzo to interpret every step. The important thing was clear: the danger had been real, and it belonged to the past.

"Is he still around?"

"He died years ago," Lorenzo said. "I remember the notice."

Clara let out a slow breath.

She had prepared herself, without admitting it, for a knock at the cottage door.

Lorenzo opened the second folder.

A newspaper clipping lay on top. Beneath it were copies of the accident report and later correspondence about the vehicle inspection.

His hands became very still.

Clara waited.

"Do you want me to read with you?"

After a moment he nodded.

Eleanor had driven east in heavy rain. She had called Rebecca to cancel their meeting because the weather was worsening. On the return journey, her car had left the road on a bend.

The investigation had found no indication of another vehicle or interference with the car. A later review, commissioned by Matteo, supported the same conclusion.

Clara checked the dates. These were the later additions Lydia had mentioned. Someone had kept asking, and the answers had stayed the same.

Lorenzo read the vehicle findings again.

"My father showed me the first report," he said. "I thought he'd accepted it because he wanted to stop talking about her."

"He had it reviewed."

"Yes."

A photograph of the damaged road barrier lay beneath the paperwork. He turned it facedown.

"I knew the weather was bad. I called her that afternoon. She said she wouldn't be long."

Clara could hear the strain in his voice now.

"You were her son," she said. "You weren't in charge of the weather. Or her car."

He rubbed a thumb over the crease in the report.

"I've had years to think of all the things I could have said."

"Would she have listened?"

He looked up.

Then, unexpectedly, a small, painful smile appeared.

"Probably not."

Clara recognized something of her own mother in that answer.

They sat quietly. Outside the conference room, someone laughed at a telephone conversation, then lowered their voice.

"I kept thinking there had to be someone," Lorenzo said. "Someone I could find."

Clara nodded.

"Someone you could make answer."

"Yes."

She didn't tell him to let go. She placed the report back in its folder and left her hand on the table near his.

After a while he rested two fingers against her wrist, lightly enough that she could have moved away.

She didn't.

The third folder held letters, an inventory of personal items, and a photograph of Eleanor laughing at something outside the frame.

Clara studied the picture.

"She looks difficult."

"Extremely."

"I think I would have liked her."

Lorenzo's eyes remained on his mother's face.

"She liked you."

He passed Clara a small envelope marked with Rebecca's initials. Inside was a copy of a letter sent to Eleanor in the months before the move to Albany.

Rebecca had written about her daughter's new school, a pair of shoes that had become too small, and Clara's insistence that a camera could make even a bus station interesting.

At the end she had added: She still asks about him. I don't know how much longer I can keep saying we'll talk when she's older.

Clara swallowed.

Beneath that letter lay a sealed envelope bearing her full name.

The handwriting was Rebecca's again, less steady than in the earlier note.

Lydia returned when Lorenzo rang the small bell on the table.

"Do you know how this got here?" Clara asked.

Lydia checked the inventory.

"Your mother sent it to the firm during her illness. The covering instruction asked that it remain with the family papers for you if you sought them."

Clara turned the envelope in her hands.

Her mother had made two attempts to tell her.

Both on paper. Both waiting for Clara to take the first step.

"I want a few minutes," she said.

This time she didn't need anyone's permission before she opened it.