Cuddy paced a round of the living room, then stopped again at the end nearest the hall, staring at that closed door. She turned to Jensen. "How long do you think I should give him?"

The psychiatrist looked very worried himself. "15 minutes at most," he replied. House needed to read the letter alone, but he didn't need to react to it alone.

Thomas walked over to the armchair and sat down, and those few steps were the first time that anybody in the group other than House had seen him favoring his foot today. He locked both hands in front of him like he was fighting to control them and afraid they might wander off to strangle somebody on their own. "I hope she . . ." he started, his voice low and tight, and then trailed off.

Wilson nodded, understanding. He had fought his own anger against Blythe and in fact had been led by it to reveal the abuse to her. "She was always a little oblivious. Hopefully in something like a death letter, she would take time and really think about what she was saying. Assuming she wrote that after she knew the truth about John. Surely she would have ripped it up by now if it came before. When is the will dated, Cuddy?"

Cuddy flipped to the end signatures distractedly. "About a month after her car accident. She knew then." She didn't even glance at the preceding text yet, her whole attention focused on that bedroom door. She looked at her watch and paced another circle. Marina watched her silently, as concerned as the rest of them.

Jensen looked over at Thomas. At this moment, he easily could believe everything he had heard about House's father. No longer did Thomas look nondescript or amiable. This was the still-fit ex-Marine who had gone to the defense attorney's home after the verdict last summer to punish him for attacking his son on the stand. Only Jensen and Cuddy knew about that encounter from House, and Thomas himself didn't realize any of them knew. But yes, push him far enough, and he would act sharply and decisively, his edge undulled by age. But Blythe was dead. Just now, watching Thomas wonder what she was doing to their son this time, Jensen thought that might be a fortunate thing for Blythe. The psychiatrist looked at his watch, unable to stop sorting through his own scenarios. Even the best case he could imagine was yet another emotional bullet to someone who had already taken more of them in the last week than anyone should. And then there were the worst case scenarios.

Cuddy stopped her agitated lap of the living room again at the entry to the hall, as close as she could get for now while she tried to give him a little space, but every sense was straining toward that door. All she heard was resounding silence.

(H/C)

Gregory,

If you're reading this, I guess I'm dead. Either that, or you found it somehow and couldn't resist the puzzle and had to open it. I'll always remember you like that, the little boy on some scientific experiment, needing to know more, like that time in Egypt when you were determined to learn all you could about mummies.

They just announced the verdict on tonight's news against that awful man Chandler. I am so proud of you, Greg. Standing up to him, helping all those kids. But I'm worried, too. I couldn't stop thinking about things the last few days ever since you asked if I'd heard from Thomas lately and then told me not to talk to him if he did call. I wish we could talk about him. I've tried a few times to bring him up since I found out about John, but you always shut down and didn't want to discuss him, and then in that call the other night, you sounded so angry at him. So I had to write this.

First of all, I'll say again that I apologize so much for missing things. I know by now that doesn't fix the past, but I'd do anything to have it all over again, Greg, and have another chance. I should have seen it myself and done something to stop it. But about Thomas, he never had the chance that I did, Greg. John was happy at first when I was pregnant and when you were born. I know it upset you when I said that the other night, too, but it's the truth. He was happy for a while, and I was so glad to give him what he wanted. But Thomas was only stationed with us for those few years, and John still adored you when Thomas left. After that, he couldn't have visited more than nine or ten times while you were growing up. He tried not to pay too much attention. He and his wife visited us now and then after you left, too, but he only saw you with John for those few hours when he visited when you were a kid.

What he did have was letters. I wrote to him a lot, Greg. I gave him updates and sent him pictures. Dozens and dozens of letters over the years. I always told him everything was fine, that we were a happy family except for routine strong-willed kid things with a dad who was military. I thought we were. So that's what Thomas heard, over and over. Don't be mad at him, Greg. I was the one who kept him from seeing it. It was my fault.

So that's my last request to you, since I'm dead. Unless you just found the letter somehow. If I'm still alive, I'll ask it anyway. Please, Greg, get in touch with Thomas. His address and phone number are at the bottom of this letter. Call him or write to him and let him tell you his side. Listen to him. If I'm dead, he's all the family you have now. Even that Chandler monster got a chance to put on a defense for himself. Let Thomas tell you what he knew, what I had told him in all those letters. Just give him a chance.

I'm so glad you found Lisa and that you have the girls now. I wish so much that things had been different when you were growing up, but I know it's too late for that. But I always did love you. Goodbye, Greg.

Love,

Mom

He sat on her bed, the letter held out slightly because he didn't have his reading glasses on, but he wasn't having trouble seeing the words. They burned as if written in fire. At least he wasn't having trouble seeing the words at first. They did start blurring on about the third or fourth reading, and the letter began shaking, too. He was surprised, as if at a distance, to realize that it was his hand that was shaking.

Anger entwined with the grief, anger against her for trying some sappy stunt like a last request from Mom. Anger over her death, with guilt as an ample side serving there, but damn it, why hadn't she talked to them? She could tell him to contact Thomas, but she hadn't been able to tell him she had been to a doctor and was having health problems. Anger at Thomas, tended carefully and cultivated over all those decades when he'd thought the man simply didn't care.

Then the tears started again. He wasn't aware of when he switched from the anger to simply facing again the irreversible fact that she was dead. Gone. That was the whole point of this letter. He would never see her again, never hear these or any other words in her voice. Yes, she definitely had made mistakes, but for so long, she had been all he had. It wasn't the wracking sobs of the cemetery this time, not a violent storm, but silent, flowing tears like a steady rain. He moved the letter away to safety, crumpling it down beside his leg, and fought unsuccessfully to stem the flood.

An arm slid around him, and Cuddy pulled him into safe harbor against her. He hadn't even heard her enter the room. One quick, embarrassed check to ensure that the door was shut and they were alone. Then he surrendered, leaning against her, closing his eyes and wishing the whole last week would go away. It didn't, of course, but neither did she.

It might have been minutes or hours before he finally straightened up. "So," he said, sniffling, "do I get the house? We'd better verify that little detail before we sell it."

Cuddy reached over to Blythe's nightstand and pulled out a few Kleenex from the box there, handing them to him firmly just as he raised his sleeve. "I don't know."

He blew his nose and then looked at her in disbelief. "You don't know? You didn't even look at the will yet?"

"No. I put it down somewhere when I came in here. I was only worried about you." She studied him, gauging. He looked taut, gearing himself up, like a runner at the starting line. The tears had stopped, but there was a desperate intensity instead that worried her more. He also looked exhausted. He was hitting his limits for today, and whatever obstacle course he now was setting up for himself, she didn't think it was one he should be doing, at least not at the moment. Her own anger against Blythe stirred, and her eyes dropped to the letter on the bed. He followed them, picked it up, and firmly folded it, putting it into his wallet. He didn't offer, and she knew better than to ask.

"We'd better get back out there before Wilson finishes reading the will and works out how to nominate himself as executor," he said.

"He was worried about you, too. We all were." She waited for his customary disclaimer diminishing Thomas from any group statement, but it didn't come. Instead, he slowly, stiffly came to his feet, obviously feeling the weight of today.

"Come on." He waited for her, though, not even taking one step on his own. She stood up and walked beside him to the door, and they opened it.

The will was still sitting untouched on the coffee table where she had left it, but Abby and Rachel had woken up and joined the group. Marina was playing with them. All the adults looked up immediately as House and Cuddy exited, their eyes worried, gauging. House distributed a general glare and challenge, and nobody made any comment on Blythe's letter. The girls frisked up, glad to see their parents again, and he picked up each for a hug, then set them down and limped on over to Thornton. He stopped squarely in front of the armchair, and Thomas came to his feet, alert but waiting, eye to eye with his son.

House took a deep breath and steeled himself, feeling Blythe's note almost as a physical weight in his wallet. "I want those letters," he demanded. "The ones from Mom, all of them, the 128 that are left. Now."