I collapsed onto the edge of the massive bed, the air rushing completely out of my lungs. My entire upbringing—the quiet life, the constant moving from state to state, my father’s intense paranoia whenever a strange car parked outside our house—it wasn’t protective parenting. It was a fugitive hiding a stolen asset.
“They called me insane for marrying a woman forty years my senior. They thought I was a blind boy chasing a fortune. They didn’t realize that the blood in my veins had been calling out to its rightful owner from the moment we met.”
“When I finally tracked your father down six months ago,” Celia continued, stepping toward the table and opening the thick envelope she had tried to give me, “he was already dying of cancer. I forced him to hand over the original forensic footprints and the hospital records. He begged me not to tell you. He said the shock would ruin you.”
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