There were bank statements.
Receipts.
Copies of money orders.
After Grace’s mother died two years earlier, David had arranged for Grace to live with a family friend named Marta Hensley.
He paid for her school and medical care from a distance.
He had known she was alone.
He had known for years.
I opened a letter dated the week of his diagnosis.
Grace,
I have failed you in ways I cannot repair, but I will not leave you alone when I die. My wife is the kindest person I have ever known. She will be angry with me, and she will have every right. But she will see you. She will love you when the shock has passed. I am trusting her with the part of my life I was too cowardly to face.
I folded the letter.
“He used me.”
Grace shook her head.
“He loved you.”
