“Okay.”
“The condition is this: you must live in the house for one full year before you can claim the inheritance. If you leave before the year is complete, the estate goes to charity.”
I looked at the photo. At the house that had been Thomas’s. That held his life. His memories. Everything he’d built while I thought he was dead.
“Why?”
“He explains in the letter. But essentially—he wanted you to understand his life. To see what he built. To know that even though he couldn’t be with you, he never stopped loving you.”
The letter was eight pages. Handwritten. His voice coming through after fifty years.
Evelyn,
If you’re reading this, Albert found you. And you know the truth now.
I’m sorry. For disappearing. For letting you believe I was dead. For fifty years of silence.
I testified against dangerous men. The FBI said contacting you would put you at risk. I couldn’t do that. Couldn’t let them hurt you because of what I’d seen.
So I let you go. Built a new life. Made money. Succeeded in ways I never imagined.
But I never stopped thinking about you. Never stopped wondering what our life would have been.
