Chapter 4: Not Geoffrey

The care home sat on a hill in Connecticut, behind a stone wall and a row of bare maples.

The nurse at the front desk looked at my face and then at her clipboard.

"Ms. Clifford," she said. "Mr. Willoughby left a note years ago. If you ever came, I was to let you in at any hour."

"Years ago?"

"Before his stroke. It's in his file."

She walked me down a long hall to a sunroom.

Richard Willoughby sat in a wheelchair beside a window, with a blanket over his knees.

He was sixty-seven now.

The first time I met him he was nine years old and had been sitting on his father's desk, swinging his feet.

His right hand lay open in his lap and didn't move.

His left hand lifted when he saw me.

"Eleanor," he said.

It came out thick, but it was my name.

I sat down beside him and took the good hand.

"Hello, Richard."

"Same coat," he said, and half his mouth smiled. "Nineteen eighty."

"It's a good coat."

He tried to laugh and coughed instead.

I waited until it passed.

"I need to ask you about a paper," I said. "Something with your name on it, from three weeks ago."

His eyes went to the nurse in the doorway.

"I'll give you a minute," she said, and stepped out.

Richard turned back to me.

"Land," I said. "My land, under the tower. Someone filed a transfer to the Group with my signature, and yours as a witness."