Chapter 8
The first thing that changed my mind happened when Rachel visited for the twins' first birthday.
I still called Noah and Ethan “the twins” even though there were four children, which Rachel insisted made no mathematical sense.
We sat on the balcony after the children fell asleep.
She handed me a glass of wine.
“You know they're going to find out eventually.”
“Maybe.”
“Ev.”
I looked toward the apartment.
“They have me.”
“They also have a biological father.”
“A biological father who signed divorce papers before knowing they existed.”
“He didn't know.”
“He knew enough.”
Rachel sighed.
“I don't think you owe Julian forgiveness. I don't think you owe the Whitmores access. But one day these children may want answers.”
“I know.”
“And legal clarity wouldn't hurt.”
I glanced at her.
“What do you mean?”
“Paternity documentation.”
“Why?”
“Citizenship issues. Medical history. Inheritance later, whether you care about their money or not. Mostly identity.”
I hated that she was right.
So several months later, using samples obtained with my consent and a legally recognized chain-of-custody procedure, I had the children's paternity established privately.
The report came back with greater than 99.99 percent probability.
Julian Whitmore was the biological father of Noah, Ethan, Grace, and Lily Carter.
I locked the original in a secure box.
And did nothing.
Then, three months before the children turned two, Rachel sent me a message.
I almost ignored it because I was cutting apple slices while Noah and Grace fought over a wooden train.
Then I saw the photograph.
Vanessa Blake stood beside Julian in an engagement portrait.
She wore a white dress.
Julian wore a navy suit.
They stood beneath the oak trees at the Whitmore family's Long Island estate.
The wedding date appeared underneath.
June 14.
Rachel called immediately.
“Before you say anything, I didn't send that to upset you.”
“Then your method needs work.”
“I sent it because of something else.”
I wiped apple juice from the counter.
“What?”
“Look at Vanessa.”
“I have.”
“Not her dress. Her face.”
I enlarged the photo.
Vanessa was beautiful.
Polished.
Smiling.
Nothing unusual.
“I don't understand.”
Rachel hesitated.
“Do you remember when you showed me the photographs from the triplets' first birthday?”
“Yes.”
“I noticed something then, but I told myself I was being ridiculous.”
A strange chill moved through me.
“What did you notice?”
“Henry.”
“What about him?”
“He doesn't resemble Julian.”
“Children don't always resemble both parents.”