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Dear Ms. Hanna Whittington,
My name is Jack Loweson. I’m the attorney for your grandfather, J.D. William Whittington. I’m reaching out to you in these unfortunate circumstances and after great work. You are one hard woman to track down. Your grandfather has recently passed, and per his Will and Testament, he has named you not only as his Power of Attorney but has left all fortune and physical assets as of his passing.
There are multiple physical possessions left as well as his estate. I would like to get in contact with you to discuss further instructions and manners of his Will and Testament. We are able to conduct a phone call or plan a time in which we could fly you to my location. Money has been placed aside for travel expenses if needed. A funeral has been held already, but due to the lengths it took in order to find you, the burial has come and passed.
I’m very sorry for the loss of your grandfather. He meant a great deal to us in Cherry Hill, South Carolina. I am sending you thoughts during this hardship. I look forward to hearing from you.
All my best,
Jack Loweson
Loweson’s Legal
621 E. Southern Rd.
Suite 203
Cherry Hill, South Carolina 84555
Phone: 555-215-5555
Fax: 555-215-5554
My body feels frozen in time. Everything suddenly loses color, and I’m convinced this is a dream and that the nightly visitor is upping the ante in my head. There is a sharp ringing in my ear, so piercing I’m almost brought to my knees. The words on the page echo in my mind, and now… my body responds, and she chooses flight.
I move, grabbing the suitcase from the top shelf of my tiny closet and begin packing anything I can. Clothes, shoes, all I can fit in one suitcase. I leave everything else, knowing full well I never intend to return.
How? I don’t know.
Am I thinking rationally? No.
But I need out.
Changing into some jeans, a bra, tank top, and hoodie, I slip on my shoes and grab the letter. With my free hand, I grab my purse and keys.
I want to say I open the door and, with one dramatic, long pause, turn and look at the life I’m leaving behind, but I don’t. Slamming the door shut and locking it, I move fast.
Time will catch up and logical thinking will take precedence, but now.
Right now, it’s just time to run.
CHAPTER TWO
HANNA
A noise jolts me awake. The morning light is playing peekaboo with the horizon in some farm town as I look out the window of the bus I’m on, which only has four other people, including the driver. When I left, I went to the bus station, grabbed a ticket, and within forty-five minutes of reading the letter that changed my life, I was on a Greyhound to a town called Cherry Hill.
Realizing the noise that woke me up was the bus hitting a pothole, I straighten up and look around. The other passengers are sleeping still.
I crashed within minutes, my rash decision and draining adrenaline finally catching up, and I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I left everything—my job, my home, and what little I had—in New York because of some letter.
What if it’s not real? What if this is a scam?
But why would someone do that to me, and how would they find me and my information? My parents never mentioned a grandparent, and the foster care system never found anyone, but how could they not?
Suddenly, I realize it’s most likely the first option, and I am being scammed.
“Shit,” I say under my breath, shaking my head and cursing my lack of logical thinking. I reach in my purse and grab the letter, which I read over and over again. Each time I do, I analyze it and come to a conclusion—one most people would disagree with.
This has to be real. And in all honesty, I hope it is. I want to know where I came from. Maybe I have more family. Cousins? Aunts? Uncles? It’s unlikely, since no one ever claimed me. But a lonely woman like me who’s had no family nor a place to call home, I can only pray there’s someone waiting in Cherry Hill for me.
The day passes, the night after that seeming longer, my short bouts of sleep not lasting long, when we finally arrive. The bus station isn’t at all what I imagined. Envisioning a dirt road and cows mooing a welcome at me isn’t at all what I’m greeted by. I’m charmed by the small town, which is alive with people, window shopping, outdoor coffee conversations, and the occasional bench with friends hanging out. Everything is so very different than New York, which I knew to expect, but seeing it, being in it—it’s homey.
I hold the letter tight in my hand and make my way toward the host of the closest café. The stand is outside, and I approach the young man who looks to be no older than sixteen.
