The photograph
showed my mother standing outside the community health center beside Ethan and Mara Ellis.
Ethan appeared younger, though only by a few years. Mara’s red hair was pulled back. My mother looked tired but happy.
On the back, she had written a date.
Three weeks before Ethan’s accident.
I unfolded the letter.
My dearest Clara,
If you are reading this, then something has gone wrong, and I am sorry that another burden has found its way to you.
You believe I met Ethan Thornton only once, during a donor visit. The truth is that I met him several times.
He came to the center because one of the foundation’s medical programs was being charged for equipment that never arrived. I noticed because the same equipment appeared on my treatment statements.
At first, I assumed it was an error. Then your father told me he had found unusual payments connected to
