“Dear Mom,” it began, “If you’re reading this, it means I’ve left the world a little sooner than either of us expected. I’m sorry for the pain you’re feeling right now. I wish I could be there to hold your hand, but I hope this place offers you some comfort.”

He went on to explain his love for this hidden sanctuary in the Alps, a place he had discovered during a college trip and had visited secretly over the years. “This is where I felt free,” he wrote. “Where I could escape the pressures of the world and just be Richard. I wanted you to have it, to experience that same freedom.”

But there was more. Richard’s letter hinted at suspicions he had about his business dealings, suggesting that someone close to him might have had a hand in his death. “I can’t prove anything,” he admitted, “but I trust you to follow your instincts. You’ve always been the best detective.”

As I finished reading, I understood that my journey was not just about finding peace but also about seeking justice for my son. Richard’s death was no accident, and as his mother, I owed it to him to uncover the truth.

I looked out of the window at the breathtaking view of the mountains, a sense of purpose filling the void that grief had left behind. In this serene refuge, I would find the strength to face whatever lay ahead. Richard had given me more than just a plane ticket; he had given me a chance to rewrite the story of his life and mine.

With renewed determination, I turned back to Pierre, who was waiting patiently by the door. “Let’s get started,” I said, feeling the power of the moment as I embraced the path my son had set before me. “We have work to do.”