My blood ran cold.
I looked at Jamie.
He was twenty-nine.
His childhood had been mostly happy.
At least, that was how I remembered it.
Our father had left when Jamie was six.
Mom rarely spoke about him.
She told us he wasn’t capable of being the father we needed.
And eventually, I stopped asking questions.
But now my mother’s letter continued.
I have spent twenty years protecting Jamie from a truth that could destroy everything.
I believed silence would keep him safe.
I may have been wrong.
If that truth ever comes looking for him, Daniel, you must believe your brother.
Even when the truth sounds impossible.
The letter ended with one final sentence.
\*\*The man who took Jamie away that summer was not your father. \*\*
I reread it.
Once.
Twice.
Then a third time.
What summer?
Who had taken Jamie?
And why had Mom never mentioned it?
