Chapter 5
Ethan did not speak for almost thirty seconds.
Neither did I.
Richard looked as if somebody had punched him.
Finally Ethan whispered, “What?”
Rebecca’s voice trembled through the speaker.
“My father believed you died when you were a baby.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t understand. I grew up twenty minutes outside Boston. I went to public school. My name was in newspapers for high school baseball. I went to college here.”
“I know.”
“So how could he believe I was dead?”
Rebecca inhaled.
“Because he didn’t learn you were alive until much later.”
Ethan grabbed the edge of the table.
“How much later?”
“About fifteen years ago.”
His eyes widened.
“So he knew I was alive when I was twenty-three?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t he contact me?”
“He tried.”
Richard leaned toward the phone.
“How?”
Rebecca said, “He wrote letters.”
I looked at the burned papers from Margaret’s fireplace spread across the counter.
Ethan saw them too.
His face changed.
“How many?”
“I don’t know. A lot.”
“Where did he send them?”
“To your parents’ address.”
Richard went pale.
“I never saw them.”
Rebecca continued.
“Some came back. Some didn’t.”
Ethan stood abruptly.
“Did he ever come to the house?”
“Yes.”
Richard whispered, “When?”
“About fourteen years ago.”
I watched recognition move across Richard’s face.
He remembered something.
“What?” Ethan demanded.
Richard looked at his son.
“There was a man.”
Ethan stared.
Richard’s voice became distant.
“He came to the house on a Saturday morning. Your mother answered the door. I was upstairs.”
“What happened?”
“She said he was someone selling something.”
Rebecca said, “That was probably my father.”
Ethan turned away.
His hands went to his head.
I wanted to comfort him, but there was nothing to say.
His biological father had been alive.
He had known.
He had tried.
And Margaret had apparently stood between them.
Rebecca’s voice softened.
“I’m sorry.”
Ethan sat again.
“What did she tell him?”
“I only know what Dad told me. She said you knew the truth and wanted nothing to do with him.”
Ethan’s face crumpled.
“She lied.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t even know he existed.”
“I know.”
Richard reached across the table.
Ethan pulled his hand away.
Not cruelly.
He just couldn’t handle being touched.
“Rebecca,” I said, “did your father keep anything? Letters? Records?”
“Yes.”
Everyone looked at the phone.
“What?”
“Everything.”
Ethan leaned forward.
“What does everything mean?”
“Copies of letters. Bank statements. Notes from phone calls. The original paternity test your mother sent him.”
Richard stared at the speaker.
“She sent him a paternity test?”
“Yes.”
“Do you still have it?”
“I have a box.”
Ethan’s voice shook.
“Can I see it?”
Rebecca hesitated.
Then said, “I think Dad would want you to.”
She lived in Providence, less than two hours away.
Richard offered to drive.
I insisted on going too.
Ethan argued because the doctor had told me to rest.
I told him I could rest in a passenger seat.
By afternoon we were standing outside a small colonial house on a quiet street.
Rebecca opened the door.
Ethan froze.
She had his eyes.
Not similar.
The same.
Gray-blue, slightly deep-set.
Rebecca noticed it too.
Her hand rose toward her mouth.
“Oh my God.”
Ethan whispered, “Hi.”
She started crying.
Then he did.
They hugged.
I turned away because somehow it felt private.
Richard stared at the ground.
We sat in Rebecca’s living room.
She brought out a cardboard storage box.
Daniel Mercer had written Ethan’s name across the top.
ETHAN.
Nothing else.
Ethan touched the handwriting.
His hands trembled.
Rebecca sat opposite him.
“Dad had a heart attack six years ago. Before he died, he made me promise I wouldn’t throw this away.”
“Did he talk about me?”
“All the time.”
Ethan looked up.
“He did?”
“He carried your childhood picture in his wallet.”
“What picture?”
Rebecca opened the box and pulled out an old photograph.
Ethan at about five years old.
School photo.
Blue sweater.
Missing front tooth.
Richard stared at it.
“That picture was on our refrigerator.”
Rebecca nodded sadly.
“Dad said Margaret sent it to him.”
Ethan’s breathing changed.
“When?”
“According to the envelope, 1993.”
Richard leaned forward.
“That means she was communicating with him.”
“Yes.”
Rebecca pulled out letters.
Dozens.
Some in Margaret’s handwriting.
Some in Daniel’s.
I watched Ethan read.
The first letters were emotional.
Margaret telling Daniel he could never see Ethan.
Daniel begging to meet his son.
Then money entered the conversation.
Margaret asked for payments.
At first, she claimed the money was for Ethan.
School supplies.
Medical bills.
Clothes.
But Richard paid for all of those things.
Daniel had apparently sent thousands of dollars every year.
Then one letter changed everything.
Rebecca handed it to Ethan.
“I think you should read this one.”
It was dated shortly after Ethan turned five.
Ethan read silently.
His face slowly changed.
“What?”
I asked.
He handed me the page.
Daniel had written that he could no longer continue sending Margaret money unless she allowed him some contact with Ethan.
Margaret’s response was clipped to the back.
I read it.
Daniel,
You made your choice when you refused to leave Boston with me. Richard is Ethan’s father now. If you interfere, I will make sure you lose your career, your family, and any chance of seeing him. Keep the arrangement we agreed to.
M.
I looked up.
“Arrangement?”
Rebecca pulled out a bank ledger.
“There was money going both directions.”
Richard frowned.
“Why would Margaret pay Daniel if he was already paying her?”
“We never understood that.”
Then Ethan found a document near the bottom.
A photocopy of an agreement.
Not legally formal.
But signed.
Daniel promised not to publicly challenge Ethan’s paternity.
Margaret promised to protect Daniel from something described only as “the Weston incident.”
Richard sat very still.
“What is the Weston incident?”
Rebecca shook her head.
“I hoped you knew.”
Nobody did.
Then my phone buzzed.
Claire.
I answered.
“Emily, where are you?”
“Providence.”
“You need to come back.”
Something in her voice scared me.
“What happened?”
“The police found Mom.”
Ethan stood.
“Where?”
Claire continued.
“She wasn’t running away.”
“What was she doing?”
“She went to Uncle Thomas’s house.”
Richard frowned.
His younger brother.
One of the trustees.
“Why?”
Claire’s voice broke.
“She told him Ethan had confessed that all three children were the result of Emily’s affairs.”
My mouth fell open.
“What?”
“She said the donor paperwork is fake.”
Ethan grabbed the phone.
“She knows that’s not true.”
“I know.”
“Why would she say that?”
“Because she’s trying to convince Uncle Thomas to call an emergency meeting of the trust.”
Richard’s expression hardened.
“She wants to control the story before the DNA truth comes out.”
Claire said, “There’s more.”
Of course there was.
There was always more.
“What?”
“Mom told Uncle Thomas that Emily attacked her last night.”
I felt my stomach twist.
Ethan exploded.
“She shoved Emily!”
“I know.”
“She put her hands on a pregnant woman!”
“I know.”
Claire started crying.
“But Mom has bruises on her arm.”
I stared at Ethan.
“Bruises?”
“Dark ones. She says Emily grabbed her.”
“I never touched her.”
“I know.”
Richard stood.
“She made them herself.”
Claire whispered, “I think so.”
My pulse raced.
Then a car door slammed outside Rebecca’s house.
Rebecca looked toward the window.
“Were you expecting anyone?”
“No.”
Ethan stood.
Another car door.
Then another.
I heard voices.
Rebecca walked carefully to the curtain.
She looked outside.
Her face changed.
“What?”
I asked.
“There are two police cars.”
My blood went cold.
A knock sounded at the door.
Richard moved toward it.
“Don’t open it yet.”
Another knock.
“Providence Police.”
Ethan stared at me.
I put one hand over my stomach.
Richard opened the door.
Two officers stood outside.
One of them looked past Richard directly at me.
“Emily Whitmore?”
“Yes?”
“Could you step outside, please?”
My throat tightened.
“Why?”
May you like
The officer glanced at a paper in his hand.
“We need to speak with you regarding an assault complaint filed by Margaret Whitmore.”
