I turned eighteen on a Tuesday. No cake. No card. Not even a half-hearted “happy birthday.” Just my father sitting at the kitchen table, his wife stirring sugar into her mug, and my stepbrother leaning back in his chair with that look people get when they already know how the story ends. – usnews

“Watching me?”

“Yes.”

“For seventeen years?”

“Yes.”

“Then why didn’t he ever contact me?”

Richard’s face changed.

“He tried.”

I went still.

“What do you mean?”

“Letters were sent.”

“How many?”

“Thirty-two.”

My mouth went dry.

“Thirty-two?”

“Birthday cards. Christmas letters. Photographs. Invitations.”

I stared at him.

“I never received any.”

“I know.”

Richard opened his briefcase again and pulled out a file.

Inside were copies of envelopes.

All addressed to me.

Nathan Brooks.

My childhood address.

My school address.

Even my name written in handwriting that looked strangely familiar.

“I don’t understand.”

Richard placed the file on the hood of my car.

“Your grandfather hired a private investigator six years ago.”