I stared at him, trying to fit this man into the empty spaces my mother had left behind. She had been gentle but guarded, always careful when I asked about my father. She told me he was gone. Not dead. Not cruel. Just gone.
When I was sixteen, I had found her crying over an old letter.
When she died, I found the photograph.
And the letter addressed to me.
If anything ever happens and you need help, find Adrian Cross.
I had never looked for him.
Pride, maybe.
Or fear.
Or the belief that if he had wanted me, he would have found me.
“Did you know about me?” I asked.
“No.”
The answer came quickly. Painfully.
“I swear to you, Elena, I did not know. Not until six weeks ago.”
Six weeks.
I felt my fingers curl against the blanket.
“You found out six weeks ago and didn’t contact me?”
