I couldn’t speak.
Then she added:
“And there’s another condition.”
“What?”
“You do not invest a single dollar in a company until you have met at least one ordinary employee.”
I smiled.
“That I can do.”
“So?”
I stared at the contract.
Then thought about Gavin.
About my daughters.
About the highway.
About every car that had passed Eleanor before mine.
I picked up the pen.
But before I signed, Eleanor stopped me.
“One more thing.”
She reached into her handbag and placed an old envelope on the desk.
My name was written across the front.
Not Christopher Bennett.
Christopher Vale.
My heart stopped.
“Where did you get that?”
Eleanor’s voice softened.
“Your father gave it to me twenty-six years ago.”
PART 8 — THE LETTER THAT HAD WAITED TWENTY-SIX YEARS
I couldn’t move.
The envelope looked ancient.
Yellowed at the corners.
Sealed.
My original name written in handwriting I had never seen.
