I looked from the photograph to the documents, then back at him.

“My family?” I asked.

My voice came out thin and unfamiliar.

Harrison’s expression changed. It didn’t soften, exactly, but something in him recognized the weight of what he had just placed on me.

“I know this is a lot,” he said.

“That’s one way to put it.”

The photograph trembled between my fingers.

It showed a woman standing beside a young man in front of a brick building with tall windows. The photo looked old, perhaps twenty-five or thirty years. The woman had dark hair tied loosely behind her head, one hand resting on a folder against her chest. She was smiling, but there was something cautious in her eyes.

Something familiar.

My throat tightened.

“That’s my mother,” I whispered.

Her name had been Lydia Parker.

In my memories, she was always moving—folding laundry, checking Ethan’s temperature, smoothing my hair before school, laughing softly at my father’s terrible jokes. She had died when I was fifteen after a sudden aneurysm, leaving behind a silence in our house that never really went away.

I stared at the young man beside her in the picture. He looked nothing like my father. He was tall, with sharp features and thick dark hair, his expression serious despite his youth. He couldn’t have been much older than twenty-five in the photo.

“Who is he?” I asked.

Harrison did not answer immediately. His delay frightened me more than any answer could have.

“His name was Daniel Whitaker,” he said at last. “He was my business partner before anyone knew my name.”

I looked at him. “Was?”

Harrison lowered his eyes. “He died twenty-three years ago.”

Something passed through the diner, an invisible wave of curiosity and discomfort. I became painfully aware of everyone listening. Marcy, my manager, stood frozen near the coffee machine with a pot in her hand. Two truck drivers sat at the counter with their forks suspended over plates of meatloaf. A teenage couple in the corner booth whispered behind their menus.

I pushed the documents back toward Harrison. “I don’t know what this is. But I’m working. And my brother is home waiting for me. So unless this is about the blood donation—”

“It is,” he said. “लेकिन it’s also about Ethan.”

That stopped me cold. My heart gave one hard, painful thump.

“What about Ethan?”

Harrison glanced around the diner, then lowered his voice. “This isn’t a conversation you should have in front of strangers.”

The protective part of me rose so fast I barely recognized myself. “You came into my workplace with six SUVs and half the town staring through the windows. Now you want privacy?”

A flicker of regret crossed his face. “You’re right. I handled this poorly.”

It was the first thing he had said that made him seem less like a billionaire on television and more like a man standing in a cheap Ohio diner, trying to fix something he had already mishandled.

Marcy finally found her voice. “Claire,” she said carefully, “you can use my office.”

I looked at her. Her face was pale but kind. “I still have tables.”

“Honey, half your tables just forgot they were hungry.”

A nervous laugh moved through the room, easing the tension by a fraction.

I looked back at Harrison. “If this is some kind of joke—”

“It isn’t.”

“If you’re here to offer me money because I donated blood, I don’t want it.”

His mouth tightened slightly. “I suspected you would say that.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I owe you the truth,” he said. “And because there are people who may not want you to have it.”

The words settled between us like a dropped match.

I did not like the way one of Harrison’s suited men subtly turned toward the front windows. I did not like the way Harrison’s eyes scanned the room as if he were measuring exits. Most of all, I did not like hearing the phrase people who may not want you to have it in the same sentence as my brother’s name.

I took off my apron with shaking hands. “Five minutes,” I said.

Harrison nodded.

As I followed him toward Marcy’s cramped back office, I already knew five minutes would not be enough.

The office smelled like old receipts, coffee grounds, and lemon disinfectant. A small desk sat beneath a crooked calendar, its surface buried beneath invoices and employee schedules. There were two chairs, but Harrison remained standing. His assistant—a composed woman with silver-blonde hair and calm eyes—closed the door behind us but stayed outside.

I held the envelope against my chest. “Start with Ethan. Why did you say his name?”

Harrison exhaled slowly. “When the hospital contacted me after the accident, they told me the donor had requested anonymity. I respected that at first. But then my physician mentioned something unusual.”

I narrowed my eyes. “My blood type?”

“Partly. AB-negative is rare, but that wasn’t the only thing. There was a marker in your bloodwork. A hereditary enzyme profile that showed up in a private medical research file from decades ago.”

I stared at him. “That sounds like something you weren’t supposed to know.”

“It was sent to my team by mistake,” he said. “Or perhaps not by mistake. I’m still not sure.”

My fingers tightened around the envelope. “What research file?”

“Your mother worked as an administrative assistant at a biomedical lab in Cleveland in the late nineties. The public record says she left after six months. But that isn’t true. She stayed longer, under a different contract.”

I shook my head. “My mother worked at a pharmacy before I was born. Then she stayed home with me and Ethan.”

“That’s what your family believed.”

“No,” I said. “That’s what she told us.”

The sentence struck me as soon as I said it. I thought of my mother’s careful hands, the locked metal box she kept at the top of the bedroom closet, the way she used to pause when certain names appeared on the evening news. As a child, I had never questioned it. Adults carried private worries; parents had pasts. That was normal.

But now the memories rearranged themselves in unsettling ways.

Harrison watched me quietly. “Daniel Whitaker and I founded a small medical technology company before I moved into software. We were young, idealistic, and far too trusting. Daniel was brilliant. He was working on early predictive models for inherited cardiac conditions.”

The room seemed to tilt again. “Cardiac,” I repeated.

“Yes.”

“My brother has a heart condition.”

“I know.”

“How?”

He looked pained. “Because your mother contacted Daniel before he died. She believed Ethan’s condition was connected to the research.”

I took a step back. “Ethan wasn’t even born when Daniel died.”

“No,” Harrison said gently. “But you were.”

My skin went cold. For several seconds, I could only hear the muffled sounds of the diner beyond the door: plates clinking, chairs scraping, someone laughing too loudly to cover their nerves.

“What are you saying?” I asked.

“I’m saying your mother may have been part of something that put your family at risk. I’m saying Daniel left behind legal protections for her—and possibly for you. I’m saying the documents in that envelope name you as a beneficiary of a trust created before his death.”

“A trust?”

He nodded.

My laugh was sharp and humorless. “No. People like me don’t have trusts. People like me have overdue electric bills and a brother who cuts his pills in half when he thinks I’m not looking.”

Harrison’s face changed at that, tightening around the eyes. Not pity, but something closer to anger, though not directed at me. “The trust exists,” he said. “It has for more than twenty years.”

“Then where was it when my parents died? Where was it when I dropped out of community college? Where was it when Ethan was hospitalized last winter and I had to choose between rent and a cardiologist?”

“I don’t know,” Harrison said quietly. “That’s one of the reasons I’m here.”

I looked down at the documents again. There were words I recognized and many I did not: irrevocable trust, sealed beneficiary designation, Whitaker Research Holdings, Parker minor child, Lydia Anne Parker.

And then my name: Claire Elise Parker.

My mother’s handwriting appeared on one page in blue ink. I had not seen it in years. A sound escaped me before I could stop it, and Harrison stepped forward, stopping himself. “I’m sorry,” he said.

I pressed my knuckles against my mouth. It wasn’t the money that made my eyes burn; it was seeing proof that my mother had touched these pages, had known something, had made some decision while I was too small to understand. It was the sickening idea that she might have been afraid and never told us why.

“My mother wouldn’t hide something like this from us unless she had a reason,” I said.

“I agree.”

“What reason?”

Harrison was silent long enough for me to know the answer was bad. “Daniel’s death was ruled an accident,” he said. “A car crash on a rural road outside Columbus. But a week before he died, he called me and said he had discovered something inside the company. He wouldn’t say what over the phone. We were supposed to meet the next morning.”

“And he died that night.”

“Yes.”

My stomach twisted. “What happened to the company?”

“It was acquired. Broken apart. The research disappeared into private hands.”

“Whose hands?”

Harrison’s gaze sharpened. “That is what I have spent years trying to prove.”

The office suddenly felt too small. I thought of Ethan sitting at our kitchen table, thin shoulders hunched beneath an old hoodie, pretending not to be tired. I thought of the pill bottles lined up beside the sink, orange plastic soldiers guarding the fragile rhythm of his heart.

“Does this research have anything to do with Ethan getting better?” I asked.

“That’s possible.”

The word was small, but it moved through me like light under a door. Possible. For years, Ethan’s doctors had spoken in cautious language—manageable, progressive, monitor it, adjust the dosage, hope for stability. They never used words like cure. They rarely used words like improvement. Possible was enough to hurt.

“What do you want from me?” I asked.

Harrison opened his mouth, but before he could answer, someone knocked once and opened the office door. His assistant stood there, posture straight, face unreadable.

“Mr. Cole,” she said. “There’s a problem.”

Harrison turned. “What kind?”

“A local reporter just arrived. Two more are on the way. Someone posted a video of you entering the diner.”

Of course they had. In a town where nothing happened except Friday night football and church bake sales, six black SUVs and Harrison Cole walking into a diner were practically fireworks.

Harrison glanced at me. “I’d apologize again, but…”

“You keep saying that,” I muttered.

“Because I keep giving you reasons.”

That, despite everything, felt honest. I shoved the documents back into the envelope. “I need to go home.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“No.”

“Claire—”

“I said no.”

His jaw tightened, not with anger, but frustration. “You don’t understand. Once your name is online, people will start asking questions.”

“People already ask questions. They ask why I work so much. Why Ethan misses school. Why we still live in the same apartment after the ceiling leaked twice. Questions don’t scare me.”

“These might.”

I met his eyes. “Then you should have called instead of bringing a parade.”

For the first time, Harrison Cole looked truly chastened.

Outside the office, Marcy appeared, wringing her hands. “Claire, honey, there are people outside with cameras.”

I closed my eyes. The night had already turned into something too large for me to hold. “I’ll go out the back,” I said.

Harrison’s assistant spoke up. “There are two men near the alley.”

I looked at her. “Reporters?”

She hesitated. “No.”

The room became still. Harrison’s expression changed immediately. The gratitude vanished, replaced by a cold, practiced, and unmistakably serious focus. “Describe them,” he said.

“Dark sedan. No visible press credentials. One of them photographed the rear exit.”

My mouth went dry. “Maybe they’re just curious.”

“Maybe,” Harrison said, though his tone made it clear he did not believe that.

For a second, no one moved. Then my phone rang, making me jump. Ethan’s name lit up the screen. I answered too quickly. “Ethan?”

“Claire?” His voice was low and strained.

Everything inside me tightened. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s a man outside the apartment.”

The room seemed to drop away beneath my feet. “What man?”

“I don’t know. He’s been sitting in a car across the street for like twenty minutes. At first I thought it was nothing, but then he got out and walked past the building twice. Claire, did something happen?”

I gripped the phone so hard my fingers hurt. “Lock the door.”

“It is locked.”

“Check the chain.”

“I did.”

“Go to the bathroom. Take your meds and your phone. Stay away from the windows.”

Harrison was already moving, gesturing to his assistant, who began speaking rapidly into an earpiece.

“Claire,” Ethan said, fear slipping through his attempt to sound calm. “You’re scaring me.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Just do what I said.”

“Are you coming home?”

I looked at Harrison. He nodded once. “Yes,” I told Ethan. “I’m coming.”

The drive to my apartment happened in a blur of rain-streaked glass and headlights. I hated that I was sitting in Harrison Cole’s SUV, hating the leather seats, the silent driver, and the expensive scent of the interior. I hated that part of me felt safer there than I would have in my rusted Honda.

Harrison sat across from me, speaking only when necessary, while Mara coordinated quietly from the front passenger seat. I kept Ethan on the phone the whole time.

“Tell me what you see,” I said.

“Nothing now,” he whispered. “The car’s still there, though.”

“What color?”

“Gray. Maybe blue. It’s hard to tell in the rain.”

“License plate?”

“I can’t see.”

“Don’t try.”

“I wasn’t going to hang out the window, Claire.”

His sarcasm was shaky, but it was there, and it almost broke me. When we turned onto my street, I saw the apartment building huddled against the rain like it was trying to disappear—three stories of faded brick, rusted balconies, and flickering exterior lights.

A gray sedan sat across the street with its headlights off. Harrison saw it at the same time I did. “Keep driving,” he told the driver.

“No,” I snapped. “My brother is upstairs.”

“We’re not leaving him.”

The SUV passed the building without slowing as another of Harrison’s vehicles turned onto the street behind us. Mara spoke quietly: “Two occupants in the sedan.”

My pulse roared in my ears. I could see our living room window from the street, and the curtain moved slightly. Ethan.

“Tell him to stay put,” Harrison said.

“I already did.”

The SUV turned the corner and stopped behind a closed laundromat. Harrison leaned forward. “Mara, get him out through the side entrance.”

I stared at him. “What side entrance?”

“Your building has one near the maintenance stairs.”

“How do you know that?”

“I had your address assessed before coming to the diner.”

Anger flared through my fear. “You investigated me?”

“I verified that you were safe.”

“You call this safe?”

“No,” he said. “That’s why we’寧 moving quickly.”

Before I could argue, my phone crackled. “Claire?” Ethan whispered. “Someone’s knocking.”

My blood froze. “Do not answer.”

“I’m not.”

The sound came faintly through the phone: Knock. Knock. Knock. Slow, polite, terrifying.

“Ethan Parker?” a man’s voice called, muffled by the door. “I’m with the county medical assistance office. We need to speak with you about your prescriptions.”

Ethan’s breathing changed. I pressed the phone tighter to my ear. “Ethan, listen to me. The county office doesn’t come at night. Go to the bathroom now.”

“I’m going.”

“Lock it.”

Harrison was already out of the SUV, and I followed before anyone could stop me. “Claire,” Mara said sharply, but I was running. Rain slapped my face and soaked through my uniform as I crossed behind the building and reached the side entrance, where Harrison’s men moved around me, controlled and fast.

The side door opened from inside, and a tall man in a dark coat held it for us. “Clear stairwell,” he said.

I didn’t ask who he was. I ran up two flights, my lungs burning, Harrison close behind. At the landing, I heard voices down the hall—calm voices, too calm.

“You may be eligible for emergency coverage,” the man outside our apartment door was saying. Then another voice added, lower: “Kid, we know your sister isn’t there.”

I reached the hallway. There were two men at our door, neither looking like a county worker. One held a folder; the other had his hands in his pockets with the stillness of someone waiting for a signal.

Harrison’s voice cut through the hall. “Gentlemen.”

Both men turned. I will never forget the look on their faces when they saw him—not surprise exactly, but recognition and calculation.

The man with the folder smiled. “Mr. Cole. This is unexpected.”

“Not for you,” Harrison said.

The smile thinned. I moved past them and pounded on our apartment door. “Ethan, it’s me.”

The chain rattled. The door opened two inches, then wider, and Ethan stood there pale and wide-eyed in pajama pants and an old Cavaliers sweatshirt. I pulled him into my arms so hard he wheezed.

“Careful,” he muttered. “I’m fragile merchandise.”

“Don’t joke.”

“That’s how you know I’m alive.”

I held him tighter. Over his shoulder, our apartment looked exactly as I had left it that morning: folded blankets on the sagging couch, dishes drying by the sink, Ethan’s textbooks spread across the coffee table. Ordinary. Until tonight, ordinary had never looked so precious.

Behind me, Harrison was still facing the two men. “Who sent you?” he asked.

The man with the folder lifted both hands slightly. “We’re only here to deliver information.”

“At nine-thirty at night?”

“Our office keeps unusual hours.”

Mara appeared at the top of the stairs, phone in hand. “The police are on their way,” she said.

That made the second man shift, while the first maintained his smile. “No need for that. Ms. Parker, we apologize for the inconvenience.”

I turned, still holding Ethan’s arm. “You know my name?”

“Of course,” he said. “Your mother asked us to look after certain matters.”

The hallway went silent. Harrison’s gaze sharpened. “What did you say?”

The man’s eyes flicked to him, then back to me. “Lydia Parker was very careful. She understood that one day questions might arise. We were instructed to help her children avoid unnecessary confusion.”

“By pretending to be from the county?” I asked.

His smile did not reach his eyes. “A protective measure.”

I stepped closer, anger breaking through the fear. “My brother has a heart condition. You scared him half to death.”

Something like regret appeared on his face, but vanished quickly. “That was not our intention.”

“Then what was?”

He opened the folder and removed a cream-colored envelope. My name was written on the front in my mother’s handwriting: Claire Elise. Not Claire Parker, not Ms. Parker. Claire Elise. My mother was the only person who had written my name that way.

The man held it out. Harrison moved slightly, blocking him. “Don’t take that,” he said.

I looked from him to the envelope. “Why not?”

“Because we don’t know who they are.”

The man with the folder sighed. “Mr. Cole has spent many years chasing ghosts. His caution is understandable, but misplaced.”

Harrison’s voice went cold. “Identify yourself.”

“My name is Andrew Vale. I’m an attorney.”

“For whom?”

A pause. “Several parties.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I’re authorized to give in a hallway.”

Ethan leaned close to me. “Claire,” he whispered, “what is happening?”

I wanted to tell him it was nothing. I wanted to tell him to go back inside, take his medication, and complain about his history homework like this was any other Thursday night. But there was an envelope in front of me written in my dead mother’s hand, a billionaire standing between me and a stranger who claimed to know her, and I was tired of people deciding what I should and should not know.

I stepped around Harrison and took the envelope. His jaw tightened, but he did not stop me.

The paper was thick, old, and faintly yellowed at the edges. My fingers shook as I broke the seal. Inside was a single folded letter, filled with my mother’s slanted, familiar handwriting:

My beloved Claire,

If you are reading this, then the precautions I took were not enough, or perhaps they have finally become necessary. I am sorry. More sorry than you may ever understand.

There are truths I kept from you because I wanted you to have a childhood untouched by fear. I told myself silence was protection. Now I wonder if silence was only another kind of danger.

Daniel Whitaker was a good man. He helped me when I was young, frightened, and alone. He believed his work could save lives, including lives in our own family. But his discovery became valuable to people who cared more about control than healing.

If Harrison Cole has found you, listen to him—but do not trust him blindly. He carries guilt, and guilt can make even honest men careless.

The hallway blurred. I heard Harrison inhale softly, and I kept reading.

There is a key hidden where your father kept his old fishing lures. It opens a box that belongs to you. Inside are the documents Daniel gave me before he died. They will explain more than I can in this letter.

Protect Ethan. His condition is not random.

My hand flew to my mouth. Ethan read over my shoulder, going still beside me. The final lines were written darker, as if she had pressed the pen too hard:

Do not let anyone take the blue journal.

And Claire, when you learn what Daniel left behind, remember this: blood can save a life, but blood can also reveal the truth.

I love you more than any secret. Mom

For a long moment, no one spoke. Rain tapped against the hallway window at the far end. Ethan’s voice came barely above a whisper: “What does she mean my condition isn’t random?”

I folded the letter carefully, though my hands were numb. “I don’t know.”

But the lie sat between us, thin and useless. Because suddenly I understood that Ethan’s illness was not just an illness anymore. It was a clue, a consequence, maybe even evidence.

Andrew Vale watched us closely. “You should come with me,” he said. “Both of you. There are arrangements in place.”

Harrison let out a humorless laugh. “Arrangements? You appear at night using a false identity and expect them to walk away with you?”

Vale’s expression remained calm. “I expect Ms. Parker to consider what her mother wanted.”

“My mother wanted me to find a key,” I said.

“Then you should find it somewhere safe.”

Harrison turned to me. “Claire, we can secure the apartment and retrieve whatever she left behind.”

Vale shook his head slightly. “That would be a mistake.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because Mr. Cole is not the only person who has been watching for your bloodwork.”

The words were quiet, but they landed hard. Harrison’s face darkened. “Who else has access?”

Vale did not answer. Police sirens wailed faintly in the distance, and the second man with Vale took a step back. “We’re out of time,” he said.

Vale reached into his folder and pulled out a business card. “Call this number when you find the box. Do not speak about the journal on the phone. Do not photograph it. Do not upload anything. And do not assume wealth equals safety.”

He looked directly at Harrison as he said the last line, then turned and walked toward the stairs with the other man. Mara moved as if to block them, but Harrison gave a slight shake of his head. “Let them go,” he said.

I stared at him. “Why?”

“Because forcing them to stay would tell us less than following them.”

Mara was already speaking quietly into her phone again, and the police arrived four minutes later. By then, the gray sedan was gone. The officers were polite but skeptical; two men knocking on a door was not much of a crime, especially when one claimed to be an attorney and no one was hurt. Harrison’s presence changed their tone, but not their options. They took statements, promised extra patrols, and glanced around our apartment with the careful discomfort of people who knew they were standing inside someone’s private hardship.

When they left, the apartment felt smaller than ever. Harrison stood near the door, too large for the room, while Mara waited beside him. Ethan sat on the couch, one hand resting over his chest, his face pale beneath the freckles that never faded even in winter.

I got him water. He took it without drinking. “So,” he said, trying for lightness and failing, “that was a normal evening.”

I sat beside him. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that. You didn’t invite mystery lawyers to our door.”

“No. But I donated blood to a billionaire and apparently unlocked the Parker family conspiracy drawer.”

Ethan blinked at me, then laughed once—the sound cracking in the middle. I wrapped an arm around him, and for a while, we just sat like that. Harrison did not interrupt.

Finally, Ethan looked up at him. “Are you really Harrison Cole?”

“I am.”

“You look older in person.”

“Ethan,” I warned.

Harrison’s mouth twitched. “That’s fair.”

Ethan nodded toward the kitchen. “Do billionaires drink tap water?”

“When necessary.”

“Our tap water has character.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

It was absurd. All of it. Harrison Cole standing in our kitchen beneath a flickering fluorescent light, drinking from one of our mismatched glasses while my brother quietly evaluated him like a substitute teacher. But absurdity has a way of becoming bearable faster than terror.

I stood up. “The letter said there’s a key where Dad kept his old fishing lures.”

Ethan looked toward the hall closet. We had not opened the top shelf in months. Our father, Mark Parker, had loved fishing in theory more than practice, owning tackle boxes, rods, rubber boots, and maps of lakes he rarely visited. After he died in a winter highway accident, I packed most of his things away because I couldn’t stand the sight of them, but one tackle box remained in the closet, buried behind Christmas decorations and an old vacuum cleaner.

I dragged a chair over and climbed up, coughing as dust coated the shelf and I moved boxes aside. My hand closed around the metal handle of the tackle box, and for a moment I was fifteen again, watching my father kneel by the front door and pretend not to cry before leaving for the hospital where my mother would never wake up.

I brought the box down. The latch squealed. Inside were faded lures, tangled fishing line, rusty hooks, and a small photograph of my father holding a bass that looked suspiciously purchased from a grocery store. Ethan smiled when he saw it. “He always said that fish was huge.”

“It was huge,” I said. “In his imagination.”

I lifted the plastic tray. A small key was taped beneath it. None of us moved. The key was brass, darkened with age, attached to a tag with one word written on it: Rosewood.

Harrison leaned closer. “Rosewood,” he repeated.

“You know what that means?” I asked.

“Maybe. Daniel Whitaker owned a cabin near Rosewood Lake. It was supposed to have been sold after he died.”

I turned the key over in my palm. “Was it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can you find out?”

“Yes.”

Ethan leaned back against the couch, suddenly exhausted. “Great. Secret cabin. Hidden box. Creepy lawyer. Mom’s letter. Anything else, or is that the full starter pack?”

I touched his forehead out of habit—no fever, but his pulse fluttered too fast at his wrist. “You need to rest.”

“I need answers.”

“You need both.”

He looked at me with an expression far older than seventeen. “Claire, if my heart thing isn’t random, then what is it?”

I didn’t have an answer. Harrison did, or at least part of one.

“Daniel’s research focused on inherited cardiac markers,” he said carefully. “Not creating illnesses. Predicting them. Understanding why certain families carried risks that standard testing missed.”

“Then why would Mom say mine isn’t random like it’s some big secret?” Ethan asked.

Harrison looked at me before answering. “Because Daniel believed some medical data had been altered. Families misidentified. Records buried. If your mother had access to proof, Ethan’s diagnosis may be connected to a larger pattern.”

Ethan absorbed that quietly. “So I’m not special. I’m paperwork.”

“No,” Harrison said firmly. “You’re a person. The paperwork may explain what people failed to do for you.”

That answer surprised me. It surprised Ethan too, and he looked down at his hands. “My meds are almost gone,” he said quietly.

“I picked them up tonight,” I told him. “They’re in my bag.”

“You worked fourteen hours and still went to the hospital.”

“That’s what I do.”

“I know.” His voice softened. “That’s the problem.”

The words went straight through me. I sat down beside him again. “Ethan—”

“Stop. You gave blood to a stranger after a double shift. Then you came home and probably ate crackers for dinner so I wouldn’t notice we were low on groceries.”

I looked away, and Harrison had the decency to study the floor.

NEXT PART