Mrs. Dubois stared at the photograph in her hands, her expression unreadable. The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife as everyone held their breath, waiting for her reaction.
"Where did you find this?" she asked softly, her fingers trembling slightly against the worn edges of the image.
"In the summer house," I replied, keeping my voice steady despite the hammering of my heart. "In Mr. Dubois's old office."
Mrs. Dubois's eyes remained fixed on the photograph. It showed a beautiful woman with striking features, standing in a garden I didn't recognize. The resemblance between us was undeniable—the same eyes, the same jawline, even the small mole at the corner of the eye.
"Mrs. Dubois," I said gently, "that woman is your mother, isn't she?"
The room went completely still. Alistair's face had turned an alarming shade of white, while Fiona looked ready to lunge across the room at me.
