Page 121 of Braving the Storm

“This here is Erik Lane’s kid.”

The man with a full head of white hair studies me quizzically, as if I’ve got a tail, or horns. Pretty sure he’ll consider me devil spawn.

“Our condolences, we read about Erik’s passing in the news.” His voice is cautious, and I don’t blame him. If the papers burning a hole in my handbag are true, there are no prizes for guessing that he wouldn’t exactly be over the moon to have someone bearing the last name of Lane under his roof.

“You want a cookie, honey?” God, this woman seems so lovely and it breaks my heart knowing what they’ve been through.

“Just the soda is fine, thank you.” I take the offered glass and follow to where she pulls out a chair at their round dining table.

“If this is about the NDA, I can assure you we have kept our mouths shut all these years. No different now that your father has passed.” Mr. Mitchell sits beside his wife on the opposite side of the table to me.

There is a flash of worry that catches in her eyes as she hastily meets my gaze and then turns to scold her husband, her mouth opening with words poised.

“It’s fine, Mrs. Mitchell.” I interrupt and reach a hand in theirdirection. “Please, I’m not here about that—well, I sort of am, but not in the way you might think.”

They both look back at me with furrowed brows.

“Can you tell me, is this your bank account?” I pull out the highlighted papers from my bag and slide them across the wood.

Mrs. Mitchell pushes her glasses up her nose and barely glances at the paper before looking back at me.

“Well, of course it is. That’s the agreed-upon sum your father offered us, and where it’s always been directly deposited into.”

“Erik Lane?” I press.

“Yes, of course, Erik Lane, who sat in that very same seat as you’re in now and gave us his whole spiel about non-disclosure and the consequences for Lane Enterprises if anything about this was to get out, and then offered us an annual lump sum… as if it would bring Tegan back.”

The voice of the man across from me shakes a fraction upon speaking his daughter’s name.

“We give most of it away each year.” His wife offers me a tight smile. “Try to make sure it gets to agencies who help other girls who need the kind of support Tegan might have benefited from.”

Swallowing heavily, I feel the prick of heat behind my eyes. It’s so unfair that the selfishness of my father has wreaked such devastation on good people.

“I can’t imagine what you’ve been through.” My words seem pathetic, a measly gesture.

“Honey, it’s been a long time. We made our peace with her decisions. While we didn’t support the way she behaved in the years she was with your father, she was our daughter all the same.”

My clammy palms rub up and down the fabric of my jeans.

“Must have been quite a shock to you and your sister.” Her kindly eyes hold mine.

This woman has no idea how true that statement is right now for me, evidently not my sister, but that’s my next bridge to cross after this one.

“That’s actually part of the reason I’m here.” My mouth feels like it has been stuffed with cotton. “Now that our father has passed on, my sister and I want to make right some of his less-than-ideal actions.”

The couple seated across from me exchange a quick glance.

“We would like to formally acknowledge Tegan’s child, our brother, but in order to do so, you can appreciate the delicate nature of us being directly in contact with the adoptive parents. I know all about the lies my father spread to make it seem as if she was still pregnant when… when...” I trail off, unable to say the words or put a voice to how despicable his actions were.

Mrs. Mitchell’s eyes glaze over, and her husband conjures a tissue to hand to her within a second from out of thin air.

“We write to them. They send us photos. He just turned eleven and is madly obsessed with baseball. He plays Little League like it’s his only job on this earth.”

Another magical tissue appears and is slid across the table to me because I’m also leaking tears now.

“Your father never wanted the paperwork.” The man shrugs and takes his wife’s hand, rubbing circles over her palm with his thumb.

“I’m hoping it’s not too much to ask, or to presume that you might have kept it?”