“Emma told me about it.”
“Why would she?”
He hesitated.
“Please sit down.”
“Why would she?”
I remained standing.
“Sir, I buried my daughter six days ago. I came here because I promised her I would. Please stop making this harder.”
His expression softened.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
He gestured toward the mantelpiece.
“Perhaps you should look at that photo.”
I turned.
“Please stop making this harder.”
A framed picture showed my Emma sitting beside Arthur in a garden.
She looked healthy, with long hair and a bright smile.
I picked it up.
“When was this taken?”
“Four years ago.”
I stared at him.
“You’ve known my daughter that long?!”
“When was this taken?”
“Nearly five years.”
Emma and I had been close. We’d shared meals, talked every evening, and spent weekends together.
How had she kept this hidden?
“Was she happy when she visited you?” I asked.
