Page 96 of Lorenzo

“Last spring.”

“And then she called you again three or four months ago?”

“Yes, for the records.”

“This is important, Elaine. I need you to answer me honestly. Did you give them to her?” I ask.

Elaine hesitates. “Yes.”

“Do you have copies?”

“No.”

“Did you meet her?”

“No. I mailed them.” She seems to anticipate my next question. “To a post office box.”

“Do you still have the address?”

“I might.”

She rises, then pauses.

“Tell me, please,” she says, her voice small, “who died?”

I pause for a moment, debating if I should tell her. “Genevieve.”

Elaine’s hand flies to her mouth, and she lets out an anguished cry. “Oh God.”

She sinks back into the chair as if her legs can no longer hold her.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.

Elaine presses one hand over her mouth, tears spilling down her face. Lorenzo reaches for the box of tissues on the table and sets it within her reach.

“I didn’t know,” she sobs after a moment. “I swear, I didn’t know.”

“I believe you,” I tell her. “Take your time.”

She pulls a tissue free with trembling fingers and wipes at her cheeks.

“Was Rachel there?” she asks. “When it happened?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

Elaine looks at me, grief and fear tangled together. “Do you think she did it?”

“I think she knows something important,” I say. “And I need to find her before anyone else does.”

“We tried,” Elaine cries. “Maybe we didn't have a lot of money or connections. Maybe we couldn't buy her all the latest clothes or take her around the world, but we loved her, and we thought that was enough.” She looks at me with drenched eyes. “Why wasn’t it enough?”

“It was enough,” Lorenzo says quietly.

Elaine looks at him tearfully.

“The lack was never in what you gave her. It was in what she chose to do with it. You gave her a family,” he continues. “Love can't heal those who don't have the capacity for it. And what she chose to believe or do does not erase the life you gave her.”

Elaine bows her head, clutching the tissue between both hands.