Something in the way he said this time frightened me more than the tears.
“Wyatt. Where did you get that?”
“At Ezra’s house. In Mr. Cole’s study.”
I took the paper. Part of me was certain it would be something silly. A rumor. A misunderstanding between two teenage boys.
I unfolded it.
The letterhead read Clearpath Genetic Testing. Below it, in neat black print:
Alleged father: Dale R. Cole. Child: Wyatt G. Brennan. Probability of paternity: 99.98%.
The kitchen tilted.
My legs simply stopped holding me. I sank back into the chair beside my son with the paper crumpling in my fist, and for a long moment I couldn’t breathe at all.
I knew those names. I had signed my own name beside one of them in a lawyer’s office nineteen years ago, with Graham’s hand on my back and Renata waiting outside with two cups of coffee. I remembered the pen. I remembered the rain. I remembered Graham kissing my forehead in the parking lot and saying, That’s it. It’s done. Now it’s just ours.
