Chapter 1 - THE TWO CHILDREN BEHIND THE BLUE DOOR
By the time my plane touched down in Boston, I had convinced myself of three impossible things.
The twins might not be mine.
Evelyn might not really be married.
And whatever happened, I would remain calm.
All three beliefs lasted until I saw her.
Marcus had traced Evelyn to a brick townhouse on a quiet street in Cambridge. I left my security detail two blocks away because arriving with six armed men seemed like an excellent way to prove every terrible thing my ex-wife had probably told our children about Chicago.
I climbed the steps alone.
A man opened the blue door.
Early forties. Tall. Dark hair. Sweater sleeves pushed to his elbows. The same voice that answered Evelyn’s phone.
“You came.”
“Where is she?”
He studied me.
“You don’t get to walk into her life because you suddenly discovered Google.”
My jaw tightened.
“I asked where Evelyn is.”
“And I heard you.”
Then a little girl appeared behind him.
Pink socks.
Messy dark curls.
My eyes.
She looked at me with the same suspicious expression my mother said I wore at three years old.
Everything inside me stopped.
A little boy joined her carrying a wooden train.
He looked more like Evelyn.
Except for one thing.
The small scar through his left eyebrow.
I had the same scar.
Not from genetics, obviously.
But the resemblance was so exact it felt cruel anyway.
The man moved in front of them.
“Kids, upstairs.”
The girl pointed at me.
“Who’s that?”
My throat closed.
Then Evelyn appeared.
Three years vanished.
She wore jeans and an oversized gray sweater. Her hair was longer. Her face was thinner.
She looked beautiful.
She also looked at me like I was the last person on earth she wanted at her door.
“Adrian.”
“Are they mine?”
The man beside her swore softly.
Evelyn’s eyes changed.
“You flew from Chicago and that’s your first question?”
“I need to know.”
“No.”
My chest hollowed.
Then she continued.
“No, Adrian. You don’t get to need anything before you listen.”
She sent the children upstairs with the man.
Then she stepped onto the porch and closed the door behind her.
“Their names are Sofia and Leo.”
My heart pounded.
“They were born thirty-two weeks after you served me divorce papers.”
I stared at her.
“You were pregnant.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Her expression became almost unbearably sad.
“I did.”
The world went quiet.
“No.”
“I called.”
“I never got a call.”
“I emailed.”
“Nothing.”
“I sent ultrasound photographs to your office.”
“I never saw them.”
“I sent certified letters to the Moretti estate.”
My anger became confusion.
Evelyn laughed bitterly.
“You really don’t know.”
“What?”
She went inside and returned with a folder.
The first document was a certified-mail receipt.
Delivered to the Moretti estate.
Signed for by Victoria Moretti.
My mother.
The second was a letter Evelyn had received four days later.
It carried my name.
My signature.
And one sentence I had never written:
I want no involvement with you or the children. Do not contact me again.
I looked up.
Evelyn’s voice broke.
“So before you ask why your children don’t know you, Adrian…”
May you like
She pointed at the forged signature.
“…ask your mother why she made sure they never could.”
