Rain lashed against the windows of the Spruce Street townhouse on that Thursday evening in April 1974. I slipped through the side gate, the old childhood key cold and familiar in my hand.
The lock turned with a soft click. Inside, the house was silent, dark. Arthur and his defense executives were still at the Union League, their dinner undisturbed.
I moved through the opulent foyer, the scent of old money and polished wood heavy in the air. Each step echoed the ghost of a life I no longer had.
I reached the study, the heavy door slightly ajar. Moonlight filtered through the drawn curtains, casting long, distorted shadows across the Persian rug. The large mahogany desk stood like an altar of deception.
I located the brass cabinet lock where Evelyn said the safe keys were kept. A small chisel, tucked into my coat pocket, felt like a weapon. I worked frantically, the faint scraping sound amplified in the stillness.
The lock gave way with a soft snap. Inside, nestled on a velvet lining, were two heavy brass keys.
I moved to the large, built-in bookshelf, my fingers tracing the ornate carvings. Behind a stack of ancient law tomes, I felt the cold steel of the floor safe.
The keys slid into the tumbler with a soft click. I twisted, pulling open the heavy metal door. Inside, a single brown leather folder.
I pulled it out, my hands shaking. The official Bethesda Naval Hospital serological paternity test. Bearing the Navy seal. My eyes scanned the report, seeking the truth.
“Julian Holbrook… 99.4% biological match… Thomas Holbrook.”
A choked sob escaped me. Proof. Undeniable. Thomas was Julian’s son. Arthur’s final, most vicious lie, shattered.
I slipped the document into my coat, the leather folder pressed tight against my heart. Just then, headlight beams swept across the study window, cutting through the darkness.
Arthur had returned. Early.
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