A gray squirrel moved along the back fence.
"Have you verified anything?"
"Not yet."
"Then don't describe it publicly as a discovery."
"Of course."
"Preserve the envelope. Preserve the original papers. Record everyone who has handled them. Don't write on anything."
"We've already begun."
"And contact the appropriate investigative authorities. The center shouldn't try to authenticate allegations of criminal conduct on its own."
"I agree."
Simone closed her eyes.
Then she asked the question she had spent years hoping she would never need to ask again.
"Does this change what happened to Daniel?"
"We don't know."
She appreciated the answer.
After decades of hearing people promise certainty before they possessed evidence, she had learned to value those three words.
We don't know.
They could be the beginning of responsible inquiry.
Or they could become an excuse for doing nothing.
The difference depended on what happened next.
Her mother was sitting at the kitchen table when Simone ended the call.
"You have that look again," she said.
Simone turned.
"What look?"
"The one you had when you first started going through Daniel's paperwork."
Simone pulled out a chair.
"Some old documents have surfaced."
Her mother watched her carefully.
"About him?"
"Yes."
The older woman placed her cup on its saucer.
"Bad news?"
"I don't know yet."
"Then tell me what you do know."
Simone explained the letter.
She did not exaggerate.
She did not suggest that its contents were true.
She simply described the claims.
Her mother listened.
When Simone finished, the older woman stared at the sunlight falling across the table.
"Your brother was keeping notes before he died."
Simone lifted her head.
"What?"
"He had a notebook."
"Daniel kept lots of notebooks."
"Not the ones for school."
Her mother frowned, searching her memory.
"A little dark-green one. He carried it in his jacket."
Simone leaned forward.
"Do you remember what was in it?"
"No."
"Did he ever tell you?"
"He said there were numbers that didn't make sense."
Simone felt her pulse quicken.
"What kind of numbers?"
"Payments. That's all I remember."
Her mother rubbed her forehead.
"I thought he was helping someone with taxes."