And with it was a scrap of paper, almost destroyed by the months of moisture, on which I could still make out, in my mother’s shaky, unmistakable hand, the seven words that ended the last of my doubt:

If anything happens to me, Richard did it.

At midnight, Mrs.

Gable arrived in the hospital lobby, her hair wild, breathing hard, clutching a blue spiral notebook against her chest like a shield over a heart.

“I saw him,” she said, before even a hello.

“Richard.