I thank my guy, hang up, and sit there on the floor for a long second. My hands are trembling, breaths coming ragged as a storm of emotions whirls inside me. Shock. Satisfaction. Rage. Relief. They all crash over me at once.
I grab my phone again and call Selma.
The second she answers, the words spill from my lips. “I got him,” I nearly shout. “I know what Victor’s up to.”
“You do? Great news,” Selma says. “I was starting to worry about you.”
“How soon can you run the story?” I ask, cutting straight to the point.
“How soon can you write it?”
I glance at the clock, adrenaline buzzing through me.
“By tomorrow,” I say.
“And you have proof?”
I nod. “Plenty. I’ll write the article and bring you my findings. Then you can tell me if we run it or wait.”
“Sounds like a plan. See you tomorrow.”
I lie back on the floor, the phone clattering at my side. And for the first time in days, I almost feel alive again.
30
Baptiste
I take a deep breath, then another, for good measure. I’m meeting my biological mother tonight. In a few minutes, to be exact.
I wasn’t even sure I’d show up until it was time to leave, but here I am. Sitting in a restaurant booth, hands wrapped around a sweating glass of iced tea with lemon, waiting to meet the woman who gave birth to me.
The woman who abandoned me.
It wasn’t easy dialing her number, telling her I knew she was my mother and that I wanted to meet her. Hearing her voice crack on the phone was almost enough to make me hang up. Butactually sharing a meal with her? This might just be the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
I wish Harper was here to hold my hand through it. To reassure me, tell me it’ll all be fine. That I can walk away if I need to.
A part of me believes that, but another part knows this isn’t something you can undo.
Once you know, you know. There’s no wiping the slate clean. No going back.
My knee bounces under the table so hard, it knocks against the wood with a dull thud.
Deep breaths, Baptiste. You can do this.
The restaurant is quiet in that early-evening way—the murmur of low conversation, waiters’ footsteps tapping on the tile floor, warm light spilling from pendant lamps. It’s nice. Neutral. Safe. The kind of place you bring someone when you want privacy without pressure.
Every time the door opens, my heart jolts.
Finally, Helen Fletcher walks through the threshold, and for a split second, my heart forgets how to beat altogether before kicking into high gear, nearly pounding out of my chest.
She looks like she did in DC weeks ago—well put together, composed—but I notice a flicker of apprehension in her deep green eyes as she scans the room. As her gaze lands on me.
Remembering my manners, I stand up, even though my legs might give out. Soon enough, we’re face to face, and I don’t know what to do with my hands. I’m not going to hug her. I’m definitely not kissing her cheek. But a handshake feels wrong too.
“Hi,” she says softly. “Thank you for meeting me.”
“Hi,” I echo, my voice coming out hoarse.
