Her words silenced me.
Claire looked ashamed but continued.
“The investigator traced the money to a local organization. That was all he found. I think someone from there left the shoes.”
“Your father is barely cold in the ground, Claire. You are tearing his life apart while I am still learning how to sleep without him.”
“I wasn’t trying to tear him apart,” she whispered. “I was trying to find him.”
“Harold was exactly who we thought he was.”
“Then why did he hide the money?”
I opened my mouth, but no answer came.
The doorbell rang.
Claire and I both flinched.
The woman on the porch appeared to be about 38.
Her dark hair was pulled back, and she held a gray folder against her chest.
“Margaret?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“My name is Elena. I arranged the shoes.”
