Chapter 4 - The Man Who Raised Me
I couldn't move.
For several seconds, I simply stood there with the phone pressed against my ear.
The doctor's words kept repeating in my head.
Don't trust the man who raised him.
My father.
The man I had spent my entire life believing was my biological father.
The man whose photograph stood on my mother's nightstand after he died.
The man whose voice I still remembered telling me, “A Bradley protects his family.”
Now I was being told he had been hiding the truth about my birth.
“Dr. Whitmore,” I finally said, “I need to see those records.”
“You can come tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow is too late.”
She was silent.
Then she said, “Come tonight.”
I looked at Eleanor.
She immediately understood.
“I'll take you,” she said.
Amy refused to let me go alone.
Neither did Eleanor.
So the three of us drove across Nashville after midnight.
Frederick was asleep at home with a babysitter.
I kept checking my phone.
No calls from Teresa.
No calls from Mason.
But when we reached the clinic, I noticed a black SUV parked across the street.
The same model Eleanor had seen earlier.
I pulled over.
“Don't get out yet.”
Eleanor stared through the windshield.
“That is the car.”
My hand tightened around the steering wheel.
“What if someone followed us?”
Amy whispered, “Then we don't go inside alone.”
We waited.
Five minutes.
Ten.
The SUV finally drove away.
I followed it with my eyes until it disappeared.
Then we entered the clinic.
Dr. Whitmore was waiting.
She looked exhausted.
A thick medical file sat on the desk.
She locked the door behind us.
“I shouldn't have kept this from you.”
I stared at the folder.
“Why did my mother order you to hide it?”
“She threatened the clinic.”
“With what?”
“Money.”
That didn't surprise me anymore.
Teresa had been controlling people with money for decades.
Dr. Whitmore opened the file.
“This is your original birth record.”
She placed it in front of me.
I looked at the name.
My hands began to shake.
The biological father's name wasn't Thomas Reed.
It wasn't Arthur Bradley.
It was:
Richard Hale.
I stared.
“Who is Richard Hale?”
Eleanor whispered:
“Your father's best friend.”
My head snapped toward her.
“What?”
“He was there when you were born.”
“Why would nobody tell me?”
Eleanor looked down.
“Because Richard disappeared three months after your birth.”
“Where did he go?”
“No one knows.”
Dr. Whitmore turned another page.
“There was an investigation.”
“Into what?”
She hesitated.
“Your father's death.”
I froze.
“My father died naturally.”
“That was the official conclusion.”
“And unofficially?”
She looked at Eleanor.
Eleanor closed her eyes.
“He was poisoned.”
Silence.
I felt as if the floor had shifted beneath me.
“My father was murdered?”
“We couldn't prove it,” Dr. Whitmore said.
“Who suspected it?”
“Richard.”
I stared at her.
“Richard suspected someone killed Arthur?”
“Yes.”
“And then he disappeared?”
“Yes.”
I looked at Eleanor.
“What aren't you telling me?”
She finally broke.
“Your father wasn't the only person who knew about your real identity.”
“Who else?”
“Teresa.”
My stomach turned.
“Of course.”
Eleanor continued.
“Your mother discovered Richard was your biological father. She wanted to tell Arthur.”
“Did she?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because Arthur already knew.”
I stopped breathing.
“He knew?”
Eleanor nodded.
“Arthur knew before you were born.”
Dr. Whitmore opened another file.
Inside was a letter written by my mother.
I recognized her handwriting.
The letter was dated two weeks before my birth.
She wrote:
Arthur knows the child isn't his. Richard knows. Teresa knows. I am the only person who still believes Connor can be protected.
My eyes burned.
I continued reading.
If anything happens to me, Arthur must never be allowed to control Connor's inheritance.
I looked up.
“What inheritance?”
Eleanor said nothing.
Dr. Whitmore opened another document.
A trust.
Created the day I was born.
Its value was staggering.
But the beneficiary wasn't me.
It was Frederick.
My one-year-old son.
I stared.
“Why would my mother create a trust for my child before I even knew I would have a child?”
Eleanor whispered:
“Because she knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That your family would eventually come after you.”
I looked at Amy.
She was crying quietly.
I took her hand.
“We're going home.”
But before we left, Dr. Whitmore stopped me.
“There is one more record.”
She handed me an envelope.
It contained a photograph.
My mother.
Richard.
And a newborn baby.
Me.
On the back, my mother had written:
He will come back when Connor has a son.
I stared at the words.
Then my phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
A message appeared.
You found the records.
Another message followed.
Now find Richard.
May you like
Then a final message:
Before Teresa finds him first.
