Chapter 2 - THE CHILD MY GRANDFATHER ERASED
My grandfather had taught me how to bury enemies. Nobody had ever taught me what to do when I discovered he'd buried my own family.
I sat alone in my Chicago office, staring at the tiny gray baby shoe.
Claire Dawson had been pregnant.
With my child.
And for ten years, I'd believed she was the woman who had broken my heart.
I forced myself to continue reading her letter.
November 19, 2016.
Ethan,
I'm fifteen weeks pregnant.
I wanted to tell you in person, but every time I tried, you looked at me like I was the only peaceful thing left in your world. I was afraid of ruining that peace.
I know your grandfather doesn't approve of me. I know people think a girl who grew up with nothing must want something from the Park family.
But I don't want your money.
I want Sunday mornings. Burned pancakes. A little apartment where nobody carries a gun.
I want our baby to know the man who once walked six blocks in the snow because I said I missed fresh peaches.
I pressed the letter against my mouth.
I remembered those peaches.
I'd paid a restaurant owner two hundred dollars to open his kitchen after midnight.
Claire had laughed when I arrived.
"You could've bought the whole grocery store."
"I only needed six peaches."
"You're ridiculous, Ethan."
Then she'd kissed me.
For one miserable second, I could almost feel her standing beside me again.
The letter continued.
There's something happening at Rivergate that frightens me. I found changes in the building plans that shouldn't be there.
I tried asking questions. Someone told your grandfather.
If something happens before I can explain, please remember that I never wanted to leave you.
And please don't let our child grow up believing you didn't want us.
Love, Claire.
I read that final sentence four times.
Then I picked up the leather wristwatch.
It had belonged to my father, Henry Park, who died when I was seventeen.
I'd given it to Claire after she repaired its broken strap.
She had refused to keep it.
"This is your father's watch."
"Then keep it safe for me."
Now its hands stood motionless beneath cracked glass.
On the back were my father's initials.
And beneath them, an engraving I'd forgotten.
Time is the one thing you can never buy back.
My father had been right.
I'd just lost ten years.
I pressed the intercom.
"Mara. Cancel everything."
My assistant entered seconds later.
"Mr. Park, your grandfather is expecting you at the foundation luncheon."
"Tell him I'm unavailable."
"He's already called twice."
"Then he'll survive a third disappointment."
She hesitated.
"Is this about the box?"
I looked up.
"Who delivered it?"
"The restoration supervisor. He said the cabinet was uncovered behind a sealed wall in the east sitting room."
"Who sealed that wall?"
"He couldn't say."
"Find out."
Mara turned to leave.
"And Mara?"
"Yes?"
"Nobody tells my grandfather what was inside."
Her expression changed.
"Understood."
Forty minutes later, I walked into the old Park mansion.
I hadn't been there in almost six years.
The house stood along Chicago's North Shore, surrounded by iron gates and century-old oak trees. My grandfather had purchased it after my father's death.
I'd once believed it was the place where our family belonged.
Now I wondered how many lies were hidden behind its walls.
A construction supervisor named Frank met me at the entrance.
"The cabinet was here, Mr. Park."
He led me into the east sitting room.
Fresh plaster covered most of the walls. Behind a removed section of paneling stood a narrow walnut cabinet with a broken brass lock.
"Anything else inside?"
"Some photographs. Old household records. A woman's coat."
My stomach tightened.
"What kind of coat?"
"Red wool. Looked expensive once."
Claire had owned a red wool coat.
She'd worn it the last time I'd seen her.
"Where is it?"
"Your mother collected it this morning."
My mother.
Evelyn Park.
I hadn't considered her involvement.
I asked Frank when the cabinet had been installed.
He checked his work notes.
"December 2016. The original contractor's records show an interior modification ordered directly through Victor Park's office."
The room went cold.
That was the month Claire disappeared.
Someone had taken her birthday gift, locked it inside a cabinet, and built a wall over it.
Not thrown it away.
Not misplaced it.
Hidden it.
I walked outside before my anger became something dangerous.
For ten years, my grandfather had watched me turn into a man who trusted nobody.
He'd watched me refuse relationships.
Watched me celebrate birthdays alone.
And he'd never once mentioned Claire.
My phone vibrated.
A message from Mara.
She had found something in our archived charitable records.
For nine consecutive years, a neighborhood education center called Lantern House had received anonymous financial support through an intermediary associated with Park Meridian.
The payments stopped eighteen months earlier.
The listed program director was Claire Dawson.
I stared at her name.
Alive.
In Chicago.
Not Europe.
Not California.
Not married to someone else.
Chicago.
Less than thirty minutes from my office.
I drove there myself.
Lantern House occupied the surviving brick wing of an old industrial building near the river. Colorful murals covered the entrance.
Inside, children were painting at long wooden tables.
A gray-haired woman approached.
"Can I help you?"
"I'm looking for Claire Dawson."
"She's helping a family in the back."
"Tell her Ethan Park is here."
The woman's expression changed so abruptly that I understood.
She knew me.
And she knew something I didn't.
"Mr. Park," she said carefully, "I don't think you should be here."
"Please."
For once, I wasn't issuing an order.
I was asking.
She studied my face before disappearing down the hallway.
While I waited, I noticed children's drawings hanging along a bulletin board.
Houses.
Pets.
Families holding hands.
One picture showed a woman standing beside a little girl in front of a blue house.
Above it, written in large uneven letters:
Me and Mom. Our Safe Place.
A small signature appeared beneath the drawing.
Lucy D.
I heard footsteps.
Then a familiar voice.
"Ethan?"
I turned.
Claire stood at the end of the hallway.
Her brown hair was shorter now. Fine lines surrounded her eyes.
She wore jeans, a pale blue sweater, and a work apron dusted with paint.
She was thirty-one.
Beautiful.
And terrified.
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
Then she noticed the navy-blue box in my hand.
Her face lost its color.
"You opened it."
"Ten years too late."
She closed her eyes.
"I wondered if you ever would."
"Claire, where is our baby?"
Her lips trembled.
Behind her, a little girl stepped into the hallway.
She had brown curls, gray-blue eyes, and a small gap between her front teeth.
My mother's eyes.
My father's crooked smile.
The girl looked from Claire to me.
Then she studied the watch in my hand.
"Mom?"
Claire turned quickly.
"Lucy, sweetheart, go back to your painting."
But the girl didn't move.
She stared at me with an expression no nine-year-old should have needed to wear.
Hope mixed with fear.
May you like
Then she asked five words that broke everything I'd become.
"Mom, is that my dad?"
