Chapter 5 - THE DAUGHTER I NEVER KNEW EXISTED
I confronted Grant in Rebecca’s office.
He looked at the trust document for a full minute.
Then:
“No.”
That was all.
“No?”
“I don’t have a daughter.”
“The trust says you do.”
“It’s wrong.”
“William created it.”
“My father could make mistakes.”
Rebecca raised an eyebrow.
“Not usually when drafting irrevocable trusts.”
Grant looked sick.
“Who is the mother?”
The document did not say.
Only initials:
M.R.
Grant froze.
I saw it.
“Who is M.R.?”
“No one.”
“Grant.”
He looked away.
“Mallory Reed.”
The name meant nothing to me.
“Who is she?”
“A woman I dated before you.”
I laughed.
“Of course.”
“We broke up years before we met.”
“Then why do you look terrified?”
Grant sat down.
Mallory had contacted him six months after our wedding.
She had a baby.
A girl.
Elizabeth.
“She said she was mine.”
My body went cold.
“What did you do?”
“I asked for a DNA test.”
“And?”
“She refused.”
“Then?”
“She disappeared.”
“You never told me?”
“I didn’t believe her.”
“Your father did.”
Apparently William had investigated privately.
He found Mallory.
Confirmed the child.
Then created the trust.
“Did he tell you?”
“No.”
That part seemed true.
Rebecca found a sealed DNA report.
Probability of paternity:
99.98%.
Grant stared.
His daughter was thirteen now.
Somewhere.
Alive.
I felt something strange.
Not jealousy.
Not even anger.
Grief for a child who had apparently grown up without her father because every adult around her specialized in secrets.
“Where is she?”
Rebecca searched.
Mallory Reed had died three years earlier.
Car accident.
Elizabeth had entered guardianship with Mallory’s younger sister.
Address:
Dallas.
Grant stood.
“I’m going.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
I surprised myself too.
“You don’t show up on a thirteen-year-old’s doorstep because a lawyer found paperwork.”
“She’s my daughter.”
“You are biologically related to her.”
He flinched.
“That is not the same as being her father.”
He sat back down.
Fair.
Finally.
We contacted the guardian through counsel.
Her name was Hannah Reed.
She agreed to speak.
By video.
Hannah’s face appeared on screen that afternoon.
She looked exhausted.
“Grant Cross.”
He nodded.
“I’m sorry.”
“Good start.”
She had attitude.
I liked her immediately.
“Does Elizabeth know?”
Hannah asked.
“About me?”
“She knows her father exists.”
Grant swallowed.
“Does she know who?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t Mallory contact me again?”
Hannah’s face changed.
“She did.”
Grant stopped breathing.
“What?”
“Every year.”
“No.”
“She sent letters.”
“To where?”
“Your office.”
Silence.
Grant looked at me.
“I never got them.”
Hannah laughed bitterly.
“Then somebody made sure you didn’t.”
Rebecca started taking notes.
“Do you have copies?”
“Yes.”
Hannah held up a box.
Thirteen years of letters.
Returned.
Intercepted.
Hidden.
And the handwriting on the envelope labels belonged to one person.
May you like
Joanne Cross.
Grant’s mother.
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