Part 7: The Photograph

I stared at the words until they seemed to detach from the page.

“What does that mean?” I whispered.

Dana had gone very still.

“I was hoping you might know.”

“No. Why would he write that?”

She closed the folder halfway, then opened it again.

“Anna, did Mark ever tell you much about his father’s side of the family?”

“Not really. His father died when he was young. Margaret said they were not close to his relatives.”

Dana nodded slowly.

“Your grandfather’s business records from the late 1980s mention a man named Thomas Whitmore.”

The room seemed to shrink.

“Mark’s father was named Thomas.”

“I know.”

My heart beat hard.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying your grandfather and Mark’s father appear to have known each other.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Maybe not. But their names appear together in documents connected to a company your grandfather shut down decades ago.”

Grace made a small sound in my arms. I looked down, grounding myself in her tiny weight and warmth.

Had Mark not met me by chance?

No.

Impossible.

We had met at a charity dinner in Washington. He spilled coffee near my dress and apologized so earnestly that I laughed. He asked about my work, listened closely, and made me feel seen during a time when most men were intimidated by my rank or bored by what I could not discuss.

Charming, yes.

Planned?

No.

I would have known.

Wouldn’t I?

Dana removed one more page from the folder.