He reached into his shirt pocket and removed a second photograph, worn soft at the edges.
It showed Claire several years before we met, holding the same little girl in her arms.
On the back, someone had written:
Claire and her daughter, Lily.
I could not breathe.
“That is impossible,” I said.
Thomas’s eyes were filled with quiet sorrow.
“Daniel, before Claire married you, she had a child.”
Emma’s fingers closed around mine.
The mystery of Westbridge was no longer only about stolen money, forged records, or a hidden scholarship.
Somewhere in the world, my wife’s first daughter might still be alive.
And tomorrow, someone expected us to meet her.
