“So this is where you’ve been,” I said.
Bruce shot up from his chair. “Claire, wait.”
“Wait for what? For you to finish whatever this is?”
I turned to the woman, my voice cracking. “How long? How long have you been sleeping with my husband?”
Her face went white. She looked at Bruce, then at Jim, then at me.
“I’m not,” she began. “I’m not sleeping with anyone’s husband.”
“Claire, sit down,” Jim said, standing up too. “Please. Just sit down.”
“Don’t you dare defend him. You’ve been covering for him this whole trip. My own brother.”
Jim’s eyes filled, actually filled with tears, right there in front of the espresso machine.
“Claire, I swear to you, this isn’t what you think. Please. Sit.”
Bruce reached for my hand. I yanked it away.
“Say it, then,” I whispered. “Say what this is.”
The woman across the table exhaled slowly. She slid the folder toward me with both hands, the way someone might offer a wounded bird.
“My name is Elena,” she said quietly. “I think you should open this.”
I did not want to. My fingers moved anyway.
Inside were hospital records. A photocopy of a birth certificate with my mother’s name on it. A DNA report with percentages I couldn’t make sense of. And a photograph.
