William Hart. Thomas Whitmore. Robert Vale. Martin Sullivan.
My daughter stirred, and I realized I had stopped breathing normally.
Dana leaned closer.
“There’s one more thing.”
I almost told her to stop.
But stopping would not make the truth kinder.
“What?”
She pointed to the date on the back.
It had been taken thirty-four years ago.
The same year Mark was born.
I looked at the photo, then at my sleeping daughter, then back at my grandfather’s letter.
If a man named Whitmore ever comes near the trust, do not assume it is coincidence.
A soft knock sounded at the hospital room door.
Dana quickly gathered the papers, but not before I saw her expression change.
The nurse opened the door halfway.
“Colonel Whitmore,” she said uncertainly, “there’s someone here asking for you.”
My first thought was Mark.
My second was Margaret.
But the nurse looked down at the card in her hand, confused.
“He says his name is Robert Vale.”
The name from the photograph.
