A millionaire bu/rie/d his wife. He was returning from the cemetery. By the gate sat an old woman. He gave her money. She took it, looked at him, and quietly asked, “And what will you say to your daughter?” He froze. He had no daughter…

He poured whiskey. His hand trembled. A daughter. Impossible. He had never betrayed Erin. Not once. He was certain.

Yet memory betrayed him. Summer, many years ago. A cramped apartment. Erin away caring for her mother. A neighbor. A young woman named Lila with tired blue eyes and soft laughter. One night. Only one. He had buried that memory deep.

If she had become pregnant. The child would be nearly thirty.

Gregory swallowed the whiskey and poured another.

“This is madness,” he whispered.

Still, the words of the old woman clung to him. Doris Caldwell. A nursing home.

The next morning he ordered Walter to drive to the east side facility named Green Valley Residence.

The building was old, paint peeling, garden overgrown. Inside smelled of disinfectant and boiled vegetables. A nurse at the front desk eyed him suspiciously.

“I am looking for Doris Caldwell,” Gregory said.

The nurse hesitated but eventually pointed upstairs. “Room twelve. She is very weak. Be gentle.”

Gregory walked down a dim corridor lined with doors and television noise. He knocked.

“Come in,” a frail voice replied.

An elderly woman lay in bed, thin as paper, eyes sharp and alive.

“You finally came,” she said.