His expression changed.
He pushed his glasses up with one finger.
Exactly like Dad.
“Mom?”
Mara’s voice was barely audible.
“Evan, this is Claire.”
Shock filled his eyes.
Dad’s eyes.
Not exactly, but close enough to make my stomach twist.
“She knows?” Evan asked.
“I told her.”
He looked at me.
“I’m sorry.”
I hated him for apologizing.
“You knew about me?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Ten years.”
“And you never contacted us?”
“Dad asked me not to.”
Hearing him call my father Dad did something strange to me.
“Why?”
Evan hesitated.
“He said it would hurt you.”
My voice dropped.
“He told you that?”
“He said you and your mom had a good life. That showing up would blow everything apart.”
“And you believed him?”
“I believed my father.”
Those words hit harder than I expected.
I stepped inside.
Evan’s house was small, but almost immediately I noticed the wall.
Architectural sketches covered most of it.
Floor plans.
Building facades.
Measurements.
Handwritten notes.
Two different kinds of handwriting.
I recognized one immediately.
Evan noticed where I was looking.
“He taught me.”
I moved closer.
Then I noticed photographs on a nearby shelf.
Dad holding a birthday cake.
Dad standing beside a motorcycle.
Dad sitting across from Evan at a cheap restaurant.
Dad wearing the same old canvas jacket he always wore when he supposedly went bowling.
For ten years of Thursdays, Dad hadn’t been bowling.
He had been here.
With his son.
NEXT PAGE
