“Yes.”
A minute later, Thomas Hale stood at the foot of my bed.
Up close, he looked older than he had through the glass. Not fragile, but weathered. Deep lines bracketed his mouth. His eyes were blue-gray and tired.
“Hello, Jessica,” he said.
His voice was gentle. Southern, maybe Kentucky. Softened by years.
“Do I know you?”
“No.”
“Do you know me?”
He nodded once. “A little.”
“How?”
He took a breath. “I knew your biological father.”
The room went silent except for my heart monitor.
“My what?”
Thomas looked toward Marlene, then back at me. “I won’t say more unless you want me to.”
“My father is Hank Pierce.”
“No,” Thomas said quietly. “Hank Pierce raised you. Your father was Samuel Reed.”
The monitor picked up speed.
Marlene stepped closer.
I stared at Thomas. “That’s not funny.”
“I know.”
“My mother—”
“Your mother knows.”
The words entered me slowly, like cold water.
Thomas reached inside his jacket and took out an envelope. He did not hand it to me. He placed it on the rolling table beside my bed.
“Sam was my best friend,” he said. “He died before you were born. He left instructions. Money. Letters. Your mother was supposed to give them to you when you turned twenty-five.”
My mouth went dry.
“No.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s impossible.”
“I wish it were.”
I looked at the envelope as if it might move.
Thomas continued, “I didn’t know she never told you. For years, I believed she had honored the arrangement. Then two weeks ago, I received notice from an old trust account. Certain funds were being moved in a way that required my signature as backup trustee.”
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