Then she set it down carefully, face up.
“Tell me about Gwen,” she said.
I told her everything I could remember.
The way Gwen and Clara had grown up close and then distant.
The way Gwen had wept through every police interview.
The way she had called me every week for the first year after the disappearance, then less, then not at all.
The way I had assumed her silence was grief.
Harlow wrote without looking up.
“Did she ever mention the inheritance dispute to the police?”
“No one knew about it.
Clara never told me until the note.”
“Did Gwen have a lawyer at the time?”
