Out in the hallway, I unfolded the paper. An address, written in Frank’s shaking hand, less than twenty minutes from the house he’d raised me in.
I almost threw it away. Whatever was behind that door couldn’t possibly matter more than the man dying in the room behind me.
Then I remembered the look on his face. It hadn’t been fear of dying. It had been fear that I’d never truly understand him.
I got in the car.
PART TWO — The House With the Star Cutter
I drove through streets gone empty and gray, both hands locked on the wheel, inventing worse and worse possibilities the whole way there. A secret wife. A stranger waiting to tell me Frank had never wanted me at all.
The woman who opened the door had silver hair, pale blue eyes, and one hand pressed over her mouth like she was looking at something impossible.
