Chapter 26
CAMERON
Ileave Salty at the café table, that cryptic discussion still echoing in my head: "What if being fake means losing yourself? And what kind of father would you be then?"
Edison pads beside me as I walk down Main Street toward White's office, my guitar case bouncing against my hip with each step. The street is packed with what looks to be a mix of tourists and locals. Normal people living normal lives while my world might be about to implode.
Why the hell did White call this emergency meeting?
I run through the possibilities as the weathered gray shingles of his office building come into view. The custody evaluation? Maybe the court decided two weeks wasn't enough time.
But the more I think about it, the more one terrifying possibility takes root.
The DNA test.
I took it three days ago at a place on this same street. Simple cheek swab, and off it went to a lab for analysis. Since Alice named me on the birth certificate, the DNA test seemed like a formality.
But what if Alice named me as the child's father, but Posey wasn't mine?
My chest tightens as I reach White's door. The brass nameplate reads "White & Associates" in understated elegance.
The thought of losing Posey now, after watching her face light up during our boat ride with Salty, after hearing her call me her hero for saving that old fisherman’s life...
It would destroy something in me I didn't even know existed until this week.
I press the buzzer.
The electronic lock clicks open. Edison pushes through the door ahead of me. A pristine white sofa sits beside a glass coffee table displaying a sterling silver service. Persian rugs cover gleaming hardwood floors.
A receptionist in a navy blazer and pearl earrings looks up from behind an antique mahogany desk. "Mr. Crow, Mr. White is—"
"Right here." White appears from a hallway, wearing a similar dull but expensive suit from our first meeting.
"Thank you for coming on such short notice. Join me in my office." He gestures toward the hallway.
His private office outdoes the reception area's wealth display. A dark mahogany desk dominates the space, surrounded by leather-bound law books arranged with military precision. More Persian rugs, deeper colors. A wall of framed degrees and certificates behind his desk.
"Please, take a seat." White settles behind his desk, opening a leather portfolio.
Edison lies at my feet. Whatever's in that folder could destroy everything I've built with Posey these past five days.
White clears his throat. "It's about the paternity test you took."
Jesus Christ! My blood turns to ice.
Sensing my reaction, Edison nuzzles his face against my leg.
So this is it, I think.
How had it never occurred to me that Posey was not my biological daughter? For all I know, Alice could have become pregnant by some other man.
She may have never met me, but named me on the birth certificate because she was a fan of my music.
I should be relieved. If this were the case, tonight I could fly back to New York with my guitar and dog. Just the way I arrived.
And begin my old life first thing tomorrow morning.
But what of Posey?!
If I'm not in the picture, what's to become of her?
Will she become a ward of the state?
Spend the next dozen years living with Mrs. Bixby and Mrs. Bellows in that old house?
Or will she be sent to some fancy boarding school?
Christ, where will she spend her Christmas vacation?
"Mr. Crow," says White, looking at me. "May I have your attention?"
"Sorry. Continue."
"We have a small administrative matter to resolve," White says, pulling a single sheet from the portfolio. "Regarding your paternity test earlier this week."
"The results?" My voice comes out steady despite the panic clawing at my chest.
"The lab hasn't processed the test yet. This is about your signature on the consent form." He slides the paper across his desk. "Apparently, your signature was illegible."
I stare at the form, my signature a barely recognizable scrawl in the bottom corner.
"Odd that my bad penmanship could cause a holdup."
"With Miss Posey's unusually large inheritance, the court requires clear documentation for all legal proceedings. Your signature needs to be legible enough to hold up in probate court."
I reach for his Montblanc pen. "Of course."
"Anything else?" I slide the form back across his desk.
White studies my signature with professional satisfaction. "That should suffice. The court will have everything it needs to proceed."
I stand. But something in White's tone makes me pause. "Proceed with what, exactly?"
"The custody evaluation, of course. Two weeks, as originally discussed."
Walking out of his office into the late afternoon air, I can't shake the feeling that this meeting was never really about a signature at all.