Chapter 1 - That Isn’t Daddy’s Car
At 12:47 a.m., my six-year-old granddaughter called me crying so hard I could barely understand her.
“Papa… Mommy says the baby’s coming. Please hurry.”
I was upright before I was fully awake.
Then Lydia whispered:
“He hurt Mommy’s tummy… then he left.”
I don’t remember putting on my shoes.
I remember the Montana highway.
Empty black pavement. My headlights cutting across frozen fields. My hands locked around the steering wheel while one thought repeated in my head.
Cassidy still had six weeks.
Six weeks.
When I reached her house, I expected Trent to be gone.
Instead, I found Cassidy on the living-room floor, pale and shaking, while Lydia stood beside her clutching the stuffed elephant I had given her when she was three.
“Papa!”
She ran into me.
I caught her with one arm and dropped beside Cassidy.
Cassidy grabbed my wrist.
“The baby’s coming.”
“I’m calling 911.”
“I already did.”
Then headlights swept across the living-room wall.
Lydia stopped crying.
Her entire little body stiffened.
A car rolled into the driveway.
Trent.
He had come back.
Lydia immediately moved behind me.
The front door opened.
Trent walked inside wearing jeans, boots, and a brown work jacket. He looked at Cassidy.
Then me.
He was strangely calm.
Too calm.
“Cassidy fell,” he said. “That’s all you tell them.”
I silently lifted my phone.
911 was already connected.
Trent saw the screen.
His confidence disappeared.
Then Lydia tugged my cardigan.
“Papa…”
She pointed through the open door.
“That’s not Daddy’s car.”
I looked.
She was right.
Trent drove a silver Ford pickup.
The vehicle outside was a dark blue SUV.
And somebody was sitting in the back.
The rear door slowly opened.
A man stepped out.
Tall.
Gray coat.
Baseball cap pulled low.
Trent turned pale.
“You weren't supposed to see him.”
The 911 operator heard everything.
Sirens were already approaching.
The stranger looked toward the road.
Then at Trent.
He didn't run.
Instead, he reached into the SUV and removed a black leather briefcase.
Cassidy saw it.
Her expression changed.
“Dad…”
“What?”
“I've seen that case.”
“Where?”
She looked at Trent.
“In our bedroom.”
Trent snapped:
“Cassidy, shut up.”
I stood between him and my daughter.
“Who is that man?”
Trent didn't answer.
The stranger did.
“My name is Daniel Cross.”
Cassidy stared at him.
“I don't know you.”
Daniel's eyes dropped toward her stomach.
“No. But your husband does.”
Then the first ambulance turned into the driveway.
Daniel placed the briefcase on the hood of the SUV.
Trent suddenly lunged toward it.
I blocked him.
“Don't.”
“Frank, you don't understand.”
“Then explain it.”
Trent looked at Cassidy.
For the first time, I saw something beyond anger.
Fear.
“The money wasn't mine.”
Cassidy whispered:
“What money?”
Daniel opened the briefcase.
Inside were bundles of documents.
Not cash.
On top was an old photograph.
A young woman holding a newborn baby.
Cassidy stared.
“That's Mom.”
My wife, Elaine, had died eleven years earlier.
Daniel looked at me.
“No, Frank.”
He turned the photograph around.
On the back was a date.
Six months before Cassidy was born.
May you like
Daniel said:
“That woman isn't Elaine.”
