The next morning, Beau came back.

He walked into the room carrying a coffee he had not asked whether I wanted, wearing the careful expression of a man who believed a night’s sleep had softened the woman he’d left the day before.

Brigid stood up out of the chair, and he stopped when he saw her.

“Larisa,” he said.

“Can we talk alone?” “No,” I said.

His eyes moved past me to the bedside table, and that was when he saw the folder — brown, sealed with a cream label, my uncle’s initials pressed into one corner, sitting beside my water cup where the courier had left it an hour before.