“Are you listening, Ms. Miller?” Arthur snapped. Sophie felt the air leave her lungs. “I… I’m sorry,” she stammered. Arthur noticed her gaze, and his face hardened. “That photo… may I ask who she is?” Arthur went silent, his voice fractured. “It’s personal. It’s not important. You may leave.”
Sophie spent the rest of the day on autopilot. When she reached her modest house in Oakland, she found her mother, Isabel, in the kitchen. “How was it, honey?” Isabel asked.
“Mom… Mr. Sterling has a photo of me on his desk. The sunflower one.” The teacup in Isabel’s hand shattered on the floor. Her face went white. “What did you say?”
“It’s the same photo, Mom.” Isabel slumped into a chair and went to her room, pulling a small metal box from under the bed. Inside were yellowed letters, a lock of hair, and an identical photograph.
“There is something I never told you about your father, Sophie,” Isabel said. “Your father didn’t die. Your father is Arthur Sterling.”
The silence was deafening. “My boss?” Sophie cried. “Why didn’t you tell me?”