Chapter2
1147 Words
Adrian parked outside a small, slightly shabby apartment building across town, after his shift had ended. This was his real home. A place Veronica and Emily didn’t know about. And of course, didn’t even care about. It was the one-bedroom apartment his mother lived in. A place he had grown up in. A place he had seen the hardships of life and had accepted it as his fate. But most importantly, a place he had learned the realities of what actually gave joy beyond the dollar notes. It was indeed a place he would always call home.
This place was nothing like the cold, perfect Harris mansion. But this place felt real and most importantly warm. Books crowded the shelves. A faded rug covered the floor. And on the desk a single framed photo of his smiling mother Clara, stood.
He threw himself on the chair as Veronica’s words and the constant humiliation lingered in his mind. How much longer would he have to keep enduring the humiliation that came with being a part of that family? How much more would he have to feel unloved by his supposed “wife” and disdained by his mother in law? But underneath the anger was the same question that had made him agree to Mr. Harris’s strange offer before he died.
He hadn't married Emily Harris for her money, or her status, her beauty, or even because he regarded her. He had married her for access. He needed access to the Harris family’s resources. He needed access to their connections, and their obliviousness. His mother, Clara Carter, had died when he was fifteen. The doctors called her condition, heart failure. But in her final, feverish weeks, she’d whispered fragmented things about a powerful man, about broken promises, and about buried secrets. She had mentioned Seattle. She had mentioned a name that wasn’t his father’s. And Access to the Harris’s, could give him access to finding this man.
Mr. Harris, in his dying desperation, had offered Adrian a way into a world that felt closed to him. A world where he could get answers regarding his mother’s past. Where he could find the man who had seemingly abandoned her. And probably see if he did exist. Adrian had seen the lifeline. And though it felt cold, he grabbed it. He had endured Veronica’s venom and Emily’s distance for two years. And though he didn’t get any clue and it felt worthless, he still kept searching, refusing to give up.
He opened the top drawer of the desk. Folders, printed pages, and scraps of paper covered in notes were inside. Those were the bits and pieces of all he had been able to gather, still figuring out how to bring out a clue from each one. There were property records his mother shouldn’t have been able to afford, and old society page mentions of a “C. Carter.” But no matter how much he tried connecting the dots of each piece he gathered, they all didn’t connect, frustrating his efforts even more.
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Maybe it was just a dying woman’s confused words. Maybe there were no secrets. Maybe it was just a sad, ordinary story. He was about to close the drawer when his hand hit something cold. It was at the back, under a pile of rusty papers.
He moved the papers aside and saw a small, tarnished brass key. He didn’t recognize it. After carefully looking at it he considered that it might be for a safety deposit box or an antique lock.
Suddenly, curiosity took the best of him, pushing him to his feet. He had remembered something. He walked to the hallway closet. On the top shelf, far in the back behind spare blankets, there was a worn leather suitcase. It had been his mother’s. He hadn’t opened it in years. Initially it was because the grief was too heavy. Later on, he got so much that an old worn out box was the least to cross his mind.
He pulled down the heavy suitcase, set it on the bed and opened it. There were neatly folded clothes inside. Simple blouses, skirts, and a couple of dresses. He took each of them out, one after the other. He didn’t know why but he wanted to see all the contents in the box.
At the bottom, there was a big envelope that was already wearing off at the edges due to age. His name, “Adrian,” was written on it in his mother’s handwriting. His heartbeat raced even faster. What letter was this?
With shaking hands, he opened it. Upon opening it, instead of a letter, he found official documents. The first was a hospital bill from St. Jude Medical Center, dated more than thirty years ago. The patient’s name was Clara Carter.
He read further. The details of the procedure blurred in his vision. At the bottom, under “Emergency Contact / Next of Kin,” was his father’s name, Michael Carter. But right below it was another name: Jonathan Reed. And under that, the words: “Relationship to Patient: Father of Child.”
Adrian stared at it. The name wasn’t the issue of concern but the words “Father of Child”. His father? But Michael Carter was his father. Wasn’t he? The room suddenly felt hotter and the environment became suddenly unconducive.
He went through the other papers. There was a faded copy of a diary page in his mother’s handwriting, the ink smudged by tears: “…told me it was over. Said the baby complicated everything. His reputation… his wife… He offered money. Told me to disappear. Jonathan, how could you?…”
Beneath that was a birth certificate with “Father: Michael Carter” typed in. Clipped to it was a note on hospital paper: “Per J.R. directive: List M. Carter as father. Amend original record. Confidential.”
A brass key slipped from Adrian’s fingers and hit the suitcase. He didn’t notice. All he could hear was the pounding in his head as his head felt like exploding at the realization that everything he thought he knew about his life was a lie.
Jonathan Reed.
Father of Child.
J.R. directive.
The delivery boy sat on his bed, holding the papers. His mother was gone. Both families had lied to him. Everything he thought he knew about his life was false. The anger that had been building for years finally spilled over.
He knew the name Jonathan Reed. Everyone did. Founder and CEO of ReedTech Inc. One of the richest, most powerful men on the planet.
Adrian Carter looked down at the damning documents in his hands, then slowly, deliberately, picked up the cold brass key.
The hunt was no longer go
ing to be silent. It in fact, had just begun.
- Writer
