Ethan froze.
I watched his face.
Not embarrassment.
Not guilt.
Fear.
That was what I had been waiting for.
I reached behind the flower arrangement beside the altar.
Earlier, Dad had hidden a small velvet box there.
I opened it.
And held up the silver key.
Ethan’s entire expression changed.
“Where did you get that?”
The microphone caught every word.
A murmur swept through the guests.
I tilted my head.
“Interesting.”
“Anna, give me the key.”
“Why?”
“It doesn’t belong to you.”
“Neither did my sister.”
Claire started crying.
Ethan ignored her.
His eyes remained fixed on the key.
“Give it to me.”
“No.”
He stepped toward me.
My father moved closer.
Then the ballroom doors opened.
A woman stood there.
She looked about thirty-five.
Dark blond hair.
Black coat.
No jewelry except a simple gold chain.
Her right hand rested on the shoulder of a little boy who looked perhaps six years old.
Ethan looked as though someone had fired a bullet through his chest.
“No.”
The woman stared at him.
For the first time all night, Ethan looked genuinely terrified.
“No,” he repeated.
The boy gripped the woman’s hand.
Dad glanced toward me.
This wasn’t exactly what we had planned.
Robert Keene had found Rebecca that afternoon.
But he hadn’t promised she would come.
The woman entered the ballroom.
Three hundred people watched her cross the marble floor.
Claire whispered,
“Who is that?”
Ethan didn’t answer.
The woman stopped ten feet away.
“Hello, Ethan.”
My mother stood.
“Who are you?”
The woman looked at me.
There was compassion in her face.
And shame.
“My name is Rebecca Sloan.”
My heart began pounding.
She continued.
“And unless Ethan has managed to forge more documents than I know about…”
She looked toward him.
“…I’m his wife.”
Chaos exploded.
Guests shouted.
My mother collapsed back into her chair.
Somebody yelled, “What?”
Phones appeared everywhere.
Ethan stepped toward Rebecca.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
Rebecca laughed once.
A bitter sound.
“That’s what you said the last time.”
I looked at the boy.
He had Ethan’s dark hair.
My stomach turned.
“Is he your son?”
Rebecca looked down.
Before she could answer, Ethan snapped,
“No.”
The boy flinched.
Rebecca’s face hardened.
“He’s not Ethan’s child.”
Something about the way she said it mattered.
Dad caught it too.
“Then why bring him?”
Rebecca looked at Ethan.
“Because Oliver deserves to see the man who stole his father’s name.”
Nobody moved.
Ethan whispered,
“Rebecca.”
She reached into her coat and removed an old photograph.
She handed it to me.
Two young men stood beside each other.
Both were in their twenties.
One was Ethan.
Or someone who looked astonishingly like him.
The other man was taller and blond.
On the back, written in faded ink, were three names.
Ethan Caldwell.
Daniel Sloan.
2015.
I looked up.
Rebecca pointed at the blond man.
“That was Ethan Caldwell.”
Then she pointed at my fiancé.
“That is Daniel Sloan.”
My skin went cold.
