“Owen,” Helen repeated. “How do you know Richard?” He blinked, a fractional hesitation, just a beat too long, the first she had noticed. “He contacted me,” Owen said. “About three months ago. He told me he’d found me—that he’d been searching for a while. He said you’d received a letter. That you hadn’t been able to respond to it.”
Helen went still. Richard had found this man. Had gone looking and found him and made whatever call she hadn’t been able to make herself. The letter under her bed, face down for three months, suddenly felt enormous. “What letter?” she asked carefully, biding for time. Owen reached into his jacket and produced an envelope.