Albert slid a document across the table. FBI witness protection agreement. Dated August 1974. Thomas’s signature at the bottom.
“He chose to testify. To disappear. To let you believe he was dead rather than put you at risk.”
My hands were shaking. “For fifty years?”
“He couldn’t contact you while the case was active. By the time it was over, you’d remarried. Built a new life. He didn’t want to disrupt that.”
“So he just… stayed gone?”
“He built a business. Made a fortune. And never stopped thinking about you.”
Albert pulled out another document. A letter. Sealed. My name written on the envelope in handwriting I recognized even after fifty years.
“He wrote this six months before he died. Left instructions for me to find you. To deliver it personally.”
I took the envelope. Held it. Couldn’t open it yet.
“The inheritance,” I said. “You mentioned a condition.”
“Yes. Before you read the letter, you need to understand what he’s asking.”
Albert opened a folder. Showed me photos. A house. Large. Beautiful. Victorian style. Wrap-around porch. Gardens.
“This was Thomas’s home. Where he lived for the last thirty years. It’s part of the estate.”
