“Our father.”
Ben’s eyes shifted toward the operating-room doors.
The movement was small, but I caught it.
“What does that mean?”
He said nothing.
“Ben.”
He looked back at me.
“Richard Hale is Rosie’s father,” he said. “But he may not be yours.”
The corridor tilted.
I pressed one hand against the wall.
“No.”
“Rosie found inconsistencies in your birth records.”
“No.”
“She found payments to a private clinic in Vermont, a sealed adoption petition, and correspondence between your mother and another man.”
“No.”
“Claire—”
“Stop saying my name like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you already know who I am and I don’t.”
His eyes filled.
That frightened me more than the letter.
Ben had always been the steady one. When we were children, he climbed trees first so he could tell me which branches were safe. When Rosie got lost during a crowded Fourth of July festival at age eight, Ben found her sitting beneath a lemonade stand before the police did. When my mother died, he slept on the floor outside my bedroom because I was afraid to be alone.
Now he looked as lost as I felt.
I grabbed the letter from him.
