“We planned to tear it down and put up a luxury hotel. Cora Parsons refused to sell.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“She led the legal fight against us herself,” he said quietly. “She accused my company, publicly, of intimidating the families in that neighborhood.”
I remembered those tense weeks years earlier — Harold coming home furious, ranting about a stubborn lawyer blocking his multimillion-dollar project.
He’d never once said her name, and I had never asked, because by then we were just two people living under one roof.
“Then my legal team found out she’d been searching for you,” he went on, lowering his eyes.
“One of my attorneys recognized your maiden name in her records.”
“You’ve known who Cora Parsons was this whole time?” My voice shook. “Yes.” “How long?” “Almost four years.”
I had to brace myself against the granite counter to stay standing.
For four years, my husband had known that the girl I’d helped decades earlier was searching for me — and said nothing, because the truth threatened his real-estate deal.
“Did any letters come for me? Here, or at your office?”
He was silent a long moment.
When I asked again, louder, he finally answered. “Two letters came to the corporate office. My secretary took them, and I told her to file them away.”
I didn’t shout.