Instead, he reached into his briefcase and pulled out a thick brown envelope.
My name was written across the front.
Nathan Brooks.
Not Nathan Brooks Jr.
Not “to the grandson.”
Just my name.
My hands suddenly felt cold.
“What is that?”
“Your grandfather’s final instructions.”
He extended the envelope toward me.
I didn’t take it.
“I think you have the wrong person.”
“I don’t.”
“My grandfather died before I was born.”
Richard’s expression hardened.
“That is what your father told you.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
He glanced around the alley before lowering his voice.
“Your grandfather didn’t die before you were born, Nathan. He was alive for seventeen years after your birth.”
I stared at him.
“That’s impossible.”
“No,” Richard said quietly. “What’s impossible is that your father convinced you otherwise.”
The words hit harder than anything my father had said that morning.
I finally accepted the envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
I nearly dropped it.
A younger version of my father stood beside an older man in front of a massive brick building.
The older man had silver hair, a sharp jaw, and the same dark eyes I saw every morning when I looked in the mirror.
