She'd identified a potential conflict of interest involving people she trusted.
And she'd begun documenting it before she died.
Mara examined the envelope.
Then asked a question that made me feel sick.
“Did your wife tell anyone she was collecting this information?”
I thought about our last weekend.
The calls.
The locked study.
The question about security recordings.
Then I remembered the evening before I left for Boston.
Claire stood beside the kitchen island wearing her navy sweater.
She looked exhausted.
“James,” she'd said, “when you get back, we need to have a serious conversation about the foundation.”
I'd kissed her forehead.
“Of course.”
She'd held my arm.
“Promise me you'll listen before you get defensive.”
I'd laughed.
“Why would I be defensive?”
She didn't answer.
Instead, she looked toward the hallway.
Then whispered.
“Because someone you trust may not be who you think.”
I remembered feeling irritated.
I assumed she was talking about a contractor.
Perhaps Graham.
Perhaps a member of the finance committee.
I told her we'd discuss it when I returned.
Then I left for Boston the following morning.
I never had that conversation.
Now I was standing inside her studio, staring at the documents she'd prepared for it.
I sat on the old drafting stool.
For several seconds, I couldn't breathe.
Daniel placed one hand on my shoulder.
I closed my eyes.
“Claire tried to tell me.”
He remained quiet.
My voice broke.
“She tried, and I told her we'd talk later.”
For a moment, I wanted to hate myself.
It would have been easy.
Familiar, even.
But then I remembered Ethan.
My son carrying two years of guilt because a frightening adult made him believe silence was the only way to protect his family.
I couldn't ask him to stop blaming himself while doing the same thing to myself.
Claire hadn't known she would die.
Neither had I.
The responsibility for any deliberate wrongdoing belonged to the people who committed it.
Not to the husband who postponed a conversation during a busy workweek.
I took a breath.
Then stood.
Mara looked toward me.
“Are you all right?”
I shook my head.
“No.”
She nodded.
I looked toward the folders.
“But I want you to find out what happened.”
She answered quietly.
“That's what we're working on.”
The investigation had begun with a hidden letter.