Chapter 3 - The Ghost of 1989
The silence that followed Linda’s words was so absolute you could hear the electric hum of the projector fan on the sideboard.
Megan turned on her, her eyes narrowing into slits. "Excuse me? Who let you speak? You're a retired social worker who illegally withheld county files from my investigator. You’re lucky I don't report you to the state licensing board tonight."
"Report me to whoever you like, Megan," Linda said, stopping beside my chair. She placed a calm, steady hand on my shoulder. "My license expired eight years ago when I retired. But my memory hasn't expired. And unlike your hired bottom-feeder investigator, I was in the room when that quarter-million-dollar check was signed."
Patrick wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve. "What are you talking about? It has Arthur Vance’s legal team listed right there!"
"Yes, it does," Linda replied, her voice steady and carrying the weight of decades of authority. "Do you know *why* Walter paid that money to Arthur Vance’s attorneys, Patrick?"
"Because Walter wanted to keep me!" Patrick yelled. "Because he was selfish!"
"Walter paid that money," Linda said, pausing to let every word land like a hammer, "to buy the silence of the judge Arthur Vance had bribed to strip your mother of her parental rights."
A ripple of confusion went through the guests. Megan let out a shrill, theatrical laugh. "Oh, please! Here comes the victim routine! Dorothy, you slept with Arthur Vance. We have the travel records showing you were in the same Chicago hotel in November 1979!"
I closed my eyes for a single second. The memory hit me with the force of an oncoming freight train.
November 1979.
The hotel in Chicago wasn't an illicit rendezvous. It was the Drake Hotel. And I wasn't there alone.
I opened my eyes, looked at Megan, and then looked directly at my son.
"I was at the Drake Hotel in November of 1979, Patrick," I said, my voice barely louder than a whisper, yet silencing every soul in the room. "I was there with my sister June."
Patrick blinked. "Aunt June? What does Aunt June have to do with this?"
"Your Aunt June was twenty-one years old," I continued, feeling forty years of suppressed agony clawing its way up my throat. "She was a junior secretary at the Vance Shipping Corporation. She was beautiful, she was naive, and she was assigned to Arthur Vance’s private executive suite."
The room went dead still.
"Arthur Vance was forty-eight years old, married with three daughters, and considered untouchable in this state," I said, each word feeling like glass under my tongue. "He took June to dinner after an office party. He put something in her drink. And then he dragged her up to room 814."
Megan took a step back, her smirk faltering slightly. "That’s... that’s an unsubstantiated story. You can't prove that. Arthur Vance is dead!"
"June tried to report it," I said, ignoring Megan completely and locking my eyes onto Patrick. "She went to the police precinct on 35th Street the next morning. Do you know what happened? Arthur Vance’s attorneys were already there waiting for her. They told her that if she filed a report, they would ensure our father—your grandfather, Patrick, who was an independent truck driver—would lose his commercial contracts and end up bankrupt. They threatened to destroy our entire family."
Patrick’s mouth fell open. "June...?"
"Two months later," I said, "June found out she was pregnant."
The room seemed to drop ten degrees. Several of the guests shifted, their eyes darting between me and the projector screen.
"Walter and I had been married for eight years," I said, feeling the tears finally break over my eyelashes, hot and furious. "We had tried everything to have a child. Three miscarriages. Two failed adoptions. We were broken-hearted. When June came to us, sobbing in our kitchen, wanting to end her own life because she couldn't bear the thought of carrying her rapist's child, Walter took her hands."
I choked back a sob, remembering Walter’s face that cold January morning. His rough, calloused hands holding my little sister’s trembling fingers.
"Walter told her: *'You are not alone, Junie. This baby is innocent. And this baby is going to have a mother and a father who will love him until their dying breath.'*"
Patrick took a step backward, shaking his head violently. "No. No, no, no. My birth certificate says... it says Dorothy Miller and Walter Miller!"
"Because Walter and I legally adopted you at birth under an expedited closed registry," Linda Crawford spoke up, her voice cutting through the rising hysteria. "I handled the placement myself. We used a private adoption judge in Lake County to seal the records so Arthur Vance would never find you. Your Aunt June willingly surrendered her parental rights so that you could be raised as Walter and Dorothy’s legal, legitimate son. You were never Dorothy’s biological child, Patrick. You were her sister’s son. And Walter loved you as if you had come from his own flesh."
Patrick collapsed into the nearest dining chair, his hands flying to his hair, clutching his scalp as if his head were about to split open.
"No..." he gasped. "No, Megan said... Megan showed me the tests! She showed me the estate documents!"
"Megan showed you what she wanted to see to get her hands on fifty million dollars!" I roared, slamming both hands down onto the dining table with such force that the projector jumped.
May you like
"Now," I said, glaring at every single guest who had stood by and watched my daughter-in-law degrade me, "every single one of you get out of my house."
***