“Then I suppose there is absolutely no point in me pretending anymore, is there?”

Rebecca whispered urgently from behind me, “Jonathan, please do not open that door under any circumstances!”

“I am not going to open it,” I reassured my sister in a low voice.

Florence pressed the old photograph directly against the glass of the door.

It was a vintage picture depicting Margaret standing right beside an older woman.

The woman standing next to my late wife was not Florence, but rather a woman in her late thirties or early forties.