“Margaret.”
I froze.
“You know my mother?”
Mrs. Wilson nodded slowly.
“We were friends once.”
I struggled to speak.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because we hadn't spoken in years.”
“Why?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Because of what happened to your father.”
The room seemed to tilt.
I leaned closer.
“What happened to him?”
Mrs. Wilson looked toward the door.
Then she whispered:
“He found the original records. The real ones. The documents showing who stole the land.”
“Who?”
She shook her head.
“I never saw the name. But your mother did.”
My heart began pounding.
“Then why didn't she tell the police?”
Mrs. Wilson closed her eyes.
“Because someone threatened you.”
I stopped breathing.
“Me?”
“You were young. Still in college. They knew where you lived. Where you worked. Everything.”
I remembered my mother begging me to move home after Dad died.
I'd thought it was grief.
Now I wondered whether she had been trying to protect me.
