"I am." She tapped one of the documents. "The more records I review, the stranger everything becomes."
Nathaniel glanced at the papers. "How so?"
Genevieve hesitated, then apparently decided she trusted him enough to answer. "The official explanation never made sense."
"The bridge collapse?"
She nodded. "The structure was inspected regularly." Her finger traced several entries. "Maintenance requests existed. Repair recommendations existed." She looked up. "Then suddenly, there is almost no documentation at all."
Nathaniel frowned. "And after the accident?"
"Records return." She shook her head. "It is as though someone removed an entire section of history."
The observation sent a chill through him. "Why would anyone do that?"
"That is exactly what I would like to know."
Rain began tapping softly against the windows. For several moments, neither spoke. Then Nathaniel asked the question he had been considering for days.
"Why does it matter so much?"
Genevieve looked down at the documents. When she finally answered, her voice sounded quieter, more vulnerable. "Because I was there."
Nathaniel straightened slightly. "At the bridge?"
She nodded. "The day it collapsed."
Silence settled heavily between them.
"I did not know that."
Genevieve laughed softly. "Most people do." Her gaze drifted toward the rain outside. "They simply do not mention it."
Nathaniel suddenly understood something: the accident was not merely estate history; it was personal, deeply personal. "You were injured." It was not a question.
Genevieve touched her left arm unconsciously. "Yes." The motion lasted only a second; still, he noticed.
"Badly?"
"Enough." She offered a small smile. "I survived."
Nathaniel studied her expression. Something remained hidden there: pain, uncertainty, questions unanswered for years. "You think the missing records are connected?"
Genevieve met his gaze. "I do."