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“She said if I ever confronted him with the truth, he’d do… something.”
“Something is pretty broad,” I interjected.
“Look, I know you wanted him to… I don’t know, say he was our dad, I guess,” Dale said. “But he’s got a life. He’s got a family. He doesn’t want to jeopardize that.”
“What about us?” Chrissy asked.
“We’ve got Dad.” Dale pointed at the door. I could already smell pancakes cooking. “He’s not rich, he’s not famous. He’s just Dad. And if I had to choose between the two, I’d choose Dad. He’s the most honest, hardworking, generous man I know.”
“I know,” she said softly, looking at the floor. “I’ve been kind of an awful brat to him.”
Kind of?
“That’s another great thing about Dad,” Dale said, squeezing her shoulder. “He forgives easy—because he loves us. He really loves you, Chrissy. To him, you’re his daughter. And for a long time, before we heard about Tyler Vincent, he was the only dad we knew.”
“It’s going to kill him,” Chrissy whispered, tears in her eyes again. “He was talking all morning about how the paper got it wrong and how he and Tyler were going to clear this up. When Dad finds out he’s not… not…”
“I know.” Dale sighed. “Damnit Chrissy, if you’d just kept your mouth shut…”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. ‘I’m sorry for you too. They’re saying maybe he had influence over the judges at Battle of the Bands.”
“I knew that was coming.” Dale rolled his eyes.
“I could use a hand or two down here!” John called from the bottom of the stairs. We all froze, hoping he hadn’t heard much of the conversation.
“Be right down,” I called.
“I really am sorry,” Chrissy said again.
“I know. Go on and help Dad. I want to put some of this away.” He nodded at the bags he’d brought up.
Chrissy went downstairs. Dale and I looked at each other. I was still so stunned I didn’t know what to say.
“Chrissy apologized!” I flopped back in the bed, staring at the ceiling
“I know,” Dale started putting some of his clothes back in his drawers. “I think it’s the first sign of revelations. Hey.”
“What?” I glanced over at him standing by the dresser.
“Dad put my mail up here.” Dale came over to the bed, sitting next to me. “This is it.”
“What?” I asked again, sitting up.
“The blood test. The DNA results.”
“Ben,” I whispered.
“Do you want to open it?”
“You open it.”
Dale slid his finger under the edge, pulling out a piece of paper. I threw an arm over my eyes. He was so quiet for so long I had to peek out.
“Well?”
Dale held the paper out to me.
“With ninety-nine percent accuracy,” I read aloud. “This test concludes…”
