Chapter 7
The air seemed to thin around us.
“My mother told me she cleaned offices downtown,” I said.
“She never mentioned the Kings.”
“She wouldn’t have.”
“Why not?”
Dominic looked at the envelope in my hand.
“Because she wasn’t cleaning offices.”
The paper trembled between my fingers.
“What was she doing?”
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then Vanessa quietly reached for the envelope.
“You should open it.”
I looked down at my name.
Nomi.
The same looping handwriting that had labeled my school lunches, written notes beside my pillow, and signed birthday cards long after I was too old to need them.
My mother’s handwriting.
Inside Dominic King’s father’s study.
I slid one finger beneath the seal.
The paper opened with a soft tear.
There was only one sheet inside.
I unfolded it.
The message was short.
Three lines.
My breath caught before I reached the final sentence.
Nomi, if Dominic ever tells you he doesn’t remember the night your father disappeared, don’t believe him.
-END OF PART 2, –PRESS NEX PART IN BOTTOM OF PAGE TO READ NEXT PART
PART 3: The Secret He Had Been Hiding 027
The words blurred.
I read them again, slower this time.
*Nomi, if Dominic ever tells you he doesn’t remember the night your father disappeared, don’t believe him.*
The paper shook between my fingers.
I lifted my eyes to Dominic.
“What does this mean?”
He looked at the letter as though it belonged to a life he had spent years trying to bury beneath more practical things.
“I don’t know exactly.”
“That isn’t good enough.”
“I know.”
“Did you tell my mother you didn’t remember?”
“No.”
“Then why would she write this?”
His gaze dropped to the page.
“Because she expected me to.”
The answer landed with such quiet weight that I almost missed its meaning.
“You’re saying you did remember.”
“I remember part of that night.”
“Part?”
“I was seventeen.”
“So was I,” I said.
“No, I wasn’t.
I was ten.
I was ten, and my father disappeared.
My mother told me he left because he needed time away from us.
She said he would come back when he was ready.”
My voice sounded unfamiliar.
Too controlled.
For years, that explanation had been the softest version of the truth I possessed.
My father had left behind an unfinished cup of coffee, a jacket on the back of a chair, and a note with only four words: *I’m sorry.