“I love you too,” I said again, but this time I wasn’t talking to Mochi.
Chapter 29
A few weeks later
I stood in front of a small ranch house in upstate New York, just outside Buffalo.
The place had seen better days. Dry rot clung to the window frames, and strips of paint curled at the edges. However, the porch was swept clean, and the lawn was neatly trimmed. Someone still loved this house enough to keep it standing.
My chest felt tight. Inside, I heard water shut off. A cat meowed. Then an older woman’s voice answered, gentle and warm, like she was talking to a child.
I’d never found a phone number. The private investigator I’d hired months ago had come up empty. It was my old therapist’s brother, a police officer, who’d uncovered what Cynthia had tried to tell me before she was shot. I’d reached out to him, asking about the things he’d uncovered about me and Daniel. He told me that he’d seen my name connected to an old DNA test I’d taken years ago, one of those online ancestry kits. It had never turned up any close relatives for me, but when he’d run it against the law enforcement database, it had matched a former prison inmate.
My father.
From there, he’d tracked down this address.
I’d thanked him and told him that I’d take it from here. I didn’t want anyone else involved. So I drove out on my own. My hands had been damp against the steering wheel when I’d parked, and they still felt slick.
The past few months had been steady. No nightmares. No flashbacks. It felt like that stormy night, the one that had dragged every secret into the open, had finally given mepermission to move forward—as if knowing the truth was all I ever wanted. It had allowed me to accept myself and given me the strength to face whatever came next.
Now, standing here, I wasn’t so sure.
For a moment, I thought about leaving. My car was only a few steps behind me. What was I thinking, showing up like this in jeans and a T-shirt? A Sunday dress might have been better. Something with more effort.
Too late.
The door opened.
A woman stepped out. Her white hair was pulled into a bun. Her brown eyes searched my face steadily. She was so small that she barely reached my shoulder, and she had the kind of soft aura that made you think of long, loving hugs.
The woman wore plum-colored slacks and a faded floral blouse that looked carefully pressed. The smell of coffee drifted toward me. Two cats wound around her legs, their tails held high. Inside, I could see a narrow hallway lined with old photographs and polished furniture. The air smelled faintly of cleaner.
She smiled. “Can I help you?”
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. I just stood there, staring.
Her smile faltered. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice gentle but cautious. “Are you lost? Or looking for someone?”
I still couldn’t speak.
Her brows drew together, and she tilted her head. Now it was she who was staring. “You look so familiar. Have we met before?”
Then her eyes narrowed. The color drained from her face. One hand lifted to her throat. Her voice cracked, barely more than a whisper. “Annie?”
The name felt foreign. For a second, I almost turned to see who she was talking to. Annie. I only remembered myself as Emily, but the officer’s words came back to me. I was born Annie Summers.
This woman, standing before me with trembling hands, was Kelly Summers. My grandmother.
For some reason, I was given my father’s surname at birth. It was like my mother hadn’t wanted me even then.
“Is it really you?” my grandmother asked with a trembling voice.
I finally nodded.
Her knees buckled. Luckily, I caught her before she fell. Her body shook in my arms. She clutched my shoulders and pressed her face against me, sobbing in deep, raw cries that filled the quiet air around us.
“Annie,” she said again and again. “My Annie.”
