Chapter 2 - THE LETTER I NEVER WROTE
My name is Adrian Whitaker.
At thirty-four, I was president of Whitaker Development, a Manhattan real-estate company my grandfather started with one apartment building in Queens and my father expanded into a portfolio worth more money than I had ever been comfortable discussing.
People assumed wealth meant freedom.
In my family, it meant obligations with better tailoring.
By the time my SUV stopped outside the Tribeca apartment, my phone showed thirty-seven missed calls.
Eleven were from my mother.
Seven from Brielle.
The others came from board members, publicists, relatives and my assistant.
I ignored them.
Mara stood beside me in the elevator, holding Micah, who had fallen asleep against her shoulder.
The other three boys leaned together.
Mason watched the floor numbers.
Max studied me suspiciously.
Milo asked questions.
“Do you live here?”
“Sometimes.”
“Why sometimes?”
“I travel.”
“Do you have kids?”
The question almost stopped my breathing.
“No.”
Mara stared straight ahead.
Milo frowned.
“You look like us.”
“Milo,” Mara warned.
“What? He does.”
The elevator opened.
I unlocked the apartment.
The boys froze.
They had probably never seen three thousand square feet of Manhattan arranged for a single person who rarely slept there.
“Whoa,” Max whispered.
Mara's expression hardened.
I understood what she saw.
Six years of my comfort against six years of whatever she had survived.
“There are four bedrooms,” I said. “Use whichever ones you want.”
“We're leaving tomorrow.”
“Fine.”
“I mean it.”
“I heard you.”
She looked at me as if she was waiting for the old Whitaker arrogance.
I didn't have any left.
Not tonight.
---
The boys ate grilled cheese sandwiches prepared by my housekeeper, Mrs. Alvarez, who arrived after one confused phone call and wisely asked no questions.
By six, all four were asleep.
Together.
Despite having separate bedrooms, they chose one king-sized bed.
I stood in the doorway.
Milo slept on his back.
Mason curled around a pillow.
Max had stolen most of the blanket.
Micah's hand rested beneath his cheek.
Four boys.
Four possibilities.
Four missing years of childhood if Mara was telling the truth.
I quietly closed the door.
She was waiting in the kitchen.
“Ask.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“You've been holding questions inside since the restaurant.”
I pulled out a chair.
“When were they born?”
“August eighteenth.”
I calculated.
My stomach dropped.
Eight months after the last night Mara and I spent together.
“Early?”
“Six weeks.”
That made the timeline exact.
I sat.
“Are they mine?”
Mara stared at me for several seconds.
“Yes.”
One word.
My entire life split in half.
Before.
After.
I looked toward the hallway.
“All four?”
She almost laughed.
“They're quadruplets, Adrian.”
“I know how quadruplets work.”
“Apparently I'm not sure what you know anymore.”
Fair.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
Her expression changed.
“I did.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Mara, I never heard—”
“I called you seventeen times.”
“I changed numbers after—”
“After your mother told you I had taken money and disappeared?”
I froze.
Mara opened her worn handbag.
She removed a plastic envelope.
Inside were old papers.
One was folded until the creases had nearly split.
She pushed it across the counter.
“Read.”
It was a photocopy of a letter.
My name appeared at the top.
The handwriting resembled mine.
Mara,
Whatever happened between us is finished. My family has informed me of the pregnancy. I am not interested in complicating my future over children I cannot confirm are mine.
I stopped.
“What the hell is this?”
“Keep reading.”
I couldn't.
Because the next sentence was worse.
Take the money my mother offered you and consider the matter closed. Do not contact me again.
At the bottom:
Adrian.
My signature.
Except it wasn't.
It looked close.
Very close.
But I knew the way I signed my name.
The final stroke of the A always crossed underneath the d.
This didn't.
“I never wrote this.”
Mara's eyes filled.
“I believed that for three years.”
“Why three?”
“Because I eventually found something.”
She pulled out another document.
A returned envelope.
Then another.
Certified mail.
Addressed to me.
Stamped:
DELIVERY REFUSED.
“I sent ultrasound photographs.”
My chest tightened.
“Birth certificates.”
Another envelope.
“NICU photographs.”
Another.
“A letter when Micah needed surgery at fourteen months.”
I stared at it.
“I never saw any of these.”
“I know that now.”
“Who refused them?”
Mara looked at me.
“Your family's executive office.”
Cold moved through my body.
“My mother?”
“I don't know.”
“You said you found something.”
She nodded.
“Three years ago, a former employee from Whitaker House contacted me.”
“Who?”
“Eleanor Price.”
I knew the name.
My mother's longtime personal secretary.
She retired suddenly.
Mother said health reasons.
Mara continued.
“Eleanor told me she had been ordered to intercept anything with my name on it.”
My hands curled against the counter.
“By whom?”
“Your mother.”
I closed my eyes.
But Mara wasn't finished.
“She also told me the money wasn't an offer.”
I looked up.
“What money?”
“The fifty thousand dollars your mother claimed you sent me.”
“I never sent you fifty thousand dollars.”
“I know.”
“Did you take it?”
“No.”
“Then why did Mother say—”
“Because she needed you to believe I did.”
Mara leaned forward.
“Adrian, your mother didn't just separate us.”
Her voice shook.
“She built two different stories.”
“To me, I was a gold digger who took money and disappeared.”
Mara nodded.
“And to me, you were the rich coward who knew I was pregnant and paid his mother to make me disappear.”
I felt physically sick.
Then my phone rang.
Mother.
This time, I answered.
“Where are you?” Victoria Whitaker demanded.
“At my apartment.”
“Brielle is humiliated.”
“I met Mara today.”
Silence.
Not confusion.
Not:
Who?
Silence.
I knew immediately.
“Mother?”
Her voice became careful.
“Adrian, whatever that woman told you—”
“Four boys.”
Another silence.
Longer.
“Four?”
The surprise sounded genuine.
But not surprise about children.
Only the number.
I stood.
“You knew she was pregnant.”
“Adrian—”
“You knew.”
“Come home.”
“No.”
“We should discuss this privately.”
I looked at Mara.
Six years of hardship sat in her face.
Then I looked toward the bedroom where my sons were sleeping.
“Tomorrow morning,” I said.
“Bring every record you have concerning Mara Ellison.”
Mother's voice turned cold.
“You are making an enormous mistake.”
“No.”
May you like
I ended the call.
“I'm finally investigating one.”
