“Yes, the history.” Sandra looked at me for a moment, something softening in her gaze as she spoke in a far gentler tone. “Are you not aware?” Am I not aware of what? “I’m confused,” I said, brow furrowed. She grimaced in response, a dark curl escaping her loose bun to trickle along the side of her neck as she seemed to debate the best way to proceed. “Your father was murdered in that house, Mr. Evans.”
