“Stop lying to me!” Johnson had roared. “Just stop. We’re done. Don’t call me again. Don’t come to my office. Don’t contact me ever again. It’s over.”
He’d hung up on her while she was still crying, still trying to explain. And then, Veronica had been there. Veronica, with her perfect makeup and designer clothes and cold, calculating mind. She had comforted him. Taken him out for drinks. Helped him move on. Within six months, they were dating. Within a year, she’d moved into his penthouse. And for eight years, she had been by his side, slowly, methodically turning him into the cold, emotionless businessman he was today.
Johnson stood up so abruptly his chair rolled back and hit the window with a thud. He paced his office, his mind spinning. Had Veronica really lied? Manufactured the whole thing?
He remembered things now, little details that hadn’t seemed important at the time. How Veronica had always been around right after the breakup, almost as if she’d been waiting. How she’d discouraged him any time he’d idly wondered about Clara. How she’d thrown away letters that came to the apartment, always saying, “Just junk mail, honey. Nothing important.”
What if some of those letters had been from Clara? What if she’d been trying to tell him about Mary, and Veronica had hidden them?
Johnson’s phone buzzed. A text from Veronica. Running late for dinner. Meet me at Cascades at 7 instead of 6:30.
He stared at the message. Veronica. His girlfriend of eight years. The woman he’d built his life around, even though some part of him had always felt wrong, empty. Had she really lied about everything?
Johnson looked down at Clara’s letter, then at the phone number written in shaky crayon by a nine-year-old girl who had crossed the city alone.
His daughter. Maybe his daughter.
He needed to know the truth.
Johnson grabbed his suit jacket from the back of his chair and his keys from the desk. He jabbed the intercom button. “Linda, cancel all my meetings for the rest of the day.”
“Sir?” Linda sounded shocked. Johnson never canceled meetings. “But you have the Henderson deal at 3 and the board conference at 4…”
“Cancel them,” Johnson said firmly. “Reschedule everything. Something urgent has come up.”
“Is everything okay, Mr. Williams?”
Johnson looked at the small, crumpled paper with Mary’s number. “I don’t know yet. But I’m about to find out.”
He left his office, his strides long and purposeful. The elevator ride down felt like an eternity. His mind kept flashing images of Mary: her brave little face, her trembling hands, her words. My mom told me you were a good man.
When he reached the lobby, Linda was at her desk. She looked up, startled to see him. “Mr. Williams? Did you need something?”
“That little girl. Mary. How long ago did she leave?”
Linda checked her watch. “About twenty minutes ago. She said she was going to catch the bus back home.”
“Which direction?”
“She walked toward 3rd Avenue. The number 12 bus stop.”
Johnson was already moving toward the doors. Twenty minutes. She might still be there. Seattle buses could be agonizingly slow during the lunch hour.
He burst out of the building into the gray afternoon. The air was cold and damp, threatening rain. He turned toward 3rd Avenue and started walking fast, his expensive shoes clicking on the sidewalk. Please still be there, he thought. Please don’t be gone.
He reached the bus stop and scanned the small crowd of people waiting. At first, he didn’t see her. His heart sank.
But then. There. Sitting on the bench, her small pink jacket a bright spot in the gray surroundings. Mary was there, her backpack on her lap, her legs swinging, too short to reach the ground.
She was crying.
Not loud, wailing cries. Just quiet, heartbreaking sobs, the kind that tear you apart because you can see the person is trying so hard to be brave but just can’t hold it in anymore. Tears ran down her cheeks, and she wiped them away with the sleeve of her jacket.
Johnson walked over slowly. “Mary?”
She looked up, gasping. Her eyes flew wide with shock. “Mr. Williams? What… why are you here?”
Johnson sat down on the bench beside her, not caring that his expensive suit was getting damp. Up close, the resemblance was even more undeniable. She had his nose. His eyebrows. Even the way her ears curved at the top.
“I read the letter,” he said quietly.
Mary’s lip trembled. “And… are you… are you going to help my mom?”
“Mary, I need to ask you something important. Can you be honest with me?”
She nodded, wiping her eyes.
“Your mom, Clara… did she ever tell you who your father is?”
Mary shook her head. “She said she’d tell me when I was older. She said he was a good man who made a mistake, and that someday… maybe I’d get to meet him. But she always looked really sad when she talked about it, so I stopped asking.”
Johnson’s throat tightened. “What if I told you that I might be your father?”
Mary’s eyes went huge. She stared at him, her mouth opening and closing like a little fish. “You? You’re my…? But how? Why didn’t… Does that mean Mom didn’t lie? Does that mean you’ll help her?” The questions tumbled out in a rush as fresh tears spilled over. But these were different tears. Confused, hopeful tears.
“I don’t know anything for certain yet,” Johnson said carefully. “But I’m going to find out. And Mary? No matter what, I’m going to make sure your mom gets the medical care she needs. I promise you that.”
“Really?” Mary’s voice was so small, so full of desperate hope, it physically hurt Johnson to hear it.
“Really,” he said firmly. “Now, come on. Let’s get you home. I need to talk to your mother.”
Suddenly, Mary threw her arms around Johnson’s waist, hugging him tight. “Thank you,” she whispered into his expensive suit jacket. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
Johnson froze. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had hugged him. Veronica wasn’t affectionate. His business associates certainly didn’t. His parents had passed away years ago. Slowly, carefully, he put one arm around Mary’s small shoulders. Something inside his chest, something that had been frozen solid for eight years, cracked just a little bit.
Johnson’s car, a sleek black Mercedes that cost more than most people’s houses, was parked in the executive garage. Mary’s eyes went wide when she saw it. “This is your car?” she breathed. “It’s so shiny.”
“Come on,” Johnson said, opening the passenger door for her. “Tell me your address.”
As Mary climbed into the massive seat, her feet dangling far from the floor, she recited the address carefully, like it had been drilled into her for emergencies. “432 Maple Street, Apartment 2B. It’s in the Greenwood neighborhood.”
Johnson knew the area. It wasn’t dangerous, but it was a long way from fancy. Small apartment buildings, aging homes, working-class families. A world away from his downtown penthouse.
He started the car and pulled out of the garage. As they drove, Mary pressed her face to the window. “Mom used to have a car,” she said quietly. “But she had to sell it last year when she got too sick to work. That’s why I had to take the bus today.”
“What… what did your mom do? For work?” Johnson asked, keeping his eyes on the road.
“She used to be a teacher. Third grade. She loved it. But when the cancer came back, she couldn’t work anymore. The kids were too loud, and standing all day made her too tired.” Mary’s voice got sad. “Now she just stays home. Sometimes her friend Nicole comes to check on her when I’m at school.”
“The cancer… came back?” Johnson’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “You mean she had it before?”..
