Portia was crying openly now, her face in her hands.
"'When you appeared at Goldenrod with your mother's photograph, I knew it was only a matter of time. Part of me was terrified. But another part—the part that's been carrying this guilt for twenty-eight years—was almost relieved. The lie has been eating me alive.'"
"'You should know, Bernadette, that Boyd would have been a good father. He would have fought for you. He would have loved you.'"
I choked back a sob, then pushed on.
"'I'm sorry I robbed you of that chance. I'm sorry I built my family's happiness on his grave. If you're reading this, the truth is finally out. And despite everything, I'm glad. Sincerely, James Biggs.'"
Silence filled the room like smoke. I set the letter down on the table, my hands numb.
Jessica snatched it up, her eyes scanning the pages as if looking for proof that I'd misread somehow, that this was all a mistake. But the truth was written in James's careful script, unmistakable and damning.
"My entire life is a lie," Dylan said to the window, his voice hollow. "My father isn't my father. Everything I thought I knew—"
"Your father loved you," Jessica said sharply, though her voice shook. "Whatever else he did, that was real."
"Was it?" Portia looked up, her face blotchy with tears. "How can we know what was real?"
I picked up the photograph of Boyd Biggs—the real Boyd Biggs—and stared at his smiling face. He'd been gone from this world all this time, died never knowing if I was really his daughter, never getting the chance to be the father he'd apparently wanted to be.
The absolute, devastating cruelty of it stole my breath. My legs felt as if they might give way.
Jessica stared at me with hot, accusing eyes. "Get. Out."
I clutched the photograph and fled.
December 18, Thursday
labelingthe process of applying required and branded labels to bottles
I SATcross-legged in the back of my van, wrapped in every blanket I owned, the space heater chugging away in the corner. My phone was pressed against my ear and Suzy's voice crackled through the connection.
"I'm trying to wrap my head around all of this," she said for the third time. "How did James just up and assume his brother's life? Didn't anyone notice?"
"It was easier than you'd think," I said, pulling a blanket tighter around my shoulders. "From what Detective Hall told me, the brothers didn't have any immediate relatives who would've known. Their parents had died years earlier, no other siblings. Boyd had friends and work colleagues, but James found a new job with Boyd's identity and found new friends. When anyone asked about James, he simply said he'd died. He knew everything about Boyd's life from letters he'd written over the years. He just... stepped into the role."
"That's insane. Like something from a movie."
"Yeah." I stared at the photograph of the real Boyd Biggs propped against my makeshift shelf. His smile looked so genuine, so kind. "Except it's my life."
"And nobody questioned it in twenty-eight years?"
"People see what they expect to see. James became Boyd so completely that nobody thought to look closer." I traced the edge of the photograph with my finger. "Until I showed up and started asking questions."
Suzy was quiet for a moment. "I'm so sorry, honey. After everything you went through to find your father."
"We still don't know for sure," I interrupted, though the words felt hollow. "Detective Hall said James gave them an approximate location where the car went into the Kentucky River. They're going to search for it, see if they can find any remains. The chances of finding anything conclusive are slim."
"But there's still a chance?"
"A small one." I thought about what Detective Hall had said—how the Kentucky River could be unpredictable, how cars sometimes got wedged in deep holes or covered by sediment. How bodies didn't always surface.
"Keep me posted, okay? And call me anytime you want to talk. Day or night. I mean that."
"Thanks, Suzy. I will."
"I love you, kiddo. You're stronger than you know."
