Missing Persons by Clare O'Donohue Page A

memories.”
    “Yes, lots.”
    The conversation stalled for a minute.
    “Listen, Kate, I didn’t want to bring this up at the funeral, but we have to talk about something important.”
    I couldn’t imagine what was left to say. “Really? What?”
    “Frank’s insurance.”
    He was the second person to bring up the insurance policy. It was one thing coming from Mike, but I never expected Alex to be so concerned with my coming into a little money.
    “We had a ten-thousand-dollar insurance policy,” I told him. “To be honest with you, I think I missed the last few payments. With the way things were, and money being so tight, I guess I didn’t think it was much of a priority.”
    “That’s not what I’m talking about. I mean the work one.”
    “What work one?”
    “When Frank came to work for me after college, I made him a partner. I’d hoped it would make him feel like he was building something for himself, instead of just a kid working for his dad. I took out an insurance policy on him. It was for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. You’re the beneficiary.”
    “Of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars?” The idea of so much money should have made me feel giddy, but it only made me uncomfortable. “Did Frank know any of this?”
    “Of course. Didn’t he tell you?”
    “No.”
    Frank had part ownership in his father’s construction firm and he didn’t bother to tell me. I guess Frank had secrets that predated Vera.
    “I haven’t filed a claim yet,” Alex continued, “but I’ll do that for you in the next few days. The thing is . . .” He stopped. I could feel his tension from the other end of the phone. “The thing is, kiddo, it’s better not to discuss this with Frank’s mom.”
    “Of course, Alex. Whatever you want.”
    What I thought was, why would I talk to Lynette? We went through fifteen Thanksgivings and Christmases without exchanging more than a few words. I wasn’t about to change a family tradition now.
    Alex, I could hear, had relaxed. “Thanks, Kate. I just want you to know that I’ve always loved having you as my daughter. And I know Frank loved you too. Right up until the end.”
    Tears formed just behind my eyes but refused to go anywhere. My voice, though, quivered. “Thanks, Dad.”
     
     
    I wasn’t in the mood to go back to the photographs after the call. When Frank went to work for his dad after graduation, he hated it. He’d gotten an accounting degree under pressure and had no intention of spending his life adding numbers, as he frequently used to tell me. When he quit, or was fired, or just stopped showing up—it depended on whose version of the story was true—I was kind of proud of him. But what he’d told me at the time, and since, was that his dad cut him out completely. We weren’t to expect anything in the will, he would say. His parents were so bitterly disappointed that he was wasting his education, they’d told him they wouldn’t throw away another penny of their hard-earned money on him.
    But it was a lie. Alex kept him on as a partner, knowing Frank would inherit a significant sum, and he’d kept up an insurance policy so I would be taken care of just in case his son hadn’t been able to. And Frank knew it.
    I shut the wedding album and dropped it and the other albums onto the floor. Tomorrow they would go back into the box in the garage.
    The photos of Theresa that had been covered up by the albums were now facing me again. I looked at her beautiful face and the genuine happiness in her eyes.
    “I wonder what lies you’ve told, Theresa,” I said to the photos.
    The girl in the photos just kept smiling, as if she had nothing to hide.

Fourteen
    T he Moretti house was a typical Chicago bungalow, brown brick, with a postage-stamp lawn and neat rows of flowers. A small statue of the Virgin Mary was placed among the flowers. It looked like most of the houses on the block in this very Catholic neighborhood. Until I got to the front