Chapter 11 - The Sins of the Mother
"That's a lie," I choked out, dropping the paper as if it burned my fingers. "That's impossible. Amy is my wife. If Teresa is her mother..."
"You're not related," Arthur said quickly, holding up a hand. "Take a breath, son. You and Amy share no blood."
I sank onto the bench across from him, my head spinning. "Explain."
Arthur looked down at his rough, calloused hands. "Thirty years ago, Teresa was married to a wealthy man in Chicago. Not your father. She had an affair with me—a mechanic who barely made rent. She got pregnant. She had Amy."
He paused, a look of deep regret washing over his scarred face. "When her rich husband found out, he divorced her and left her with nothing. Teresa blamed the baby. She hated Amy. When Amy was three, Teresa abandoned her at a fire station and ran off to Nashville. There, she met your father, married him, and had you. A fresh start."
"And you?"
"I tried to get custody, but I got mixed up with the wrong crowd trying to pay for lawyers. Did a robbery, got caught, got a scar, and got ten years. Amy went into the foster system."
I stared at him, the horrifying truth settling over me. "My mother knew. When I brought Amy home to meet her... she recognized her."
"Of course she did," Arthur nodded grimly. "Amy looks exactly like Teresa did at twenty. Your mother knew exactly who she was torturing. She didn't just hate Amy because she was poor. She was punishing the child that ruined her first marriage."
"Why didn't Amy tell me she had a father?"
"Because she thinks I'm dead," Arthur whispered, tears finally pooling in his harsh eyes. "Teresa tracked me down in prison twenty years ago. She told me if I ever contacted Amy, she would make sure Amy was ruined. So I faked my death certificate. But when I got paroled, I hired a private eye to check on her. I found out Teresa was living with you. I found out about the abuse. That drawing you found? Amy didn't draw that recently. She drew it when she was a little girl, wishing I would come back. She kept it all these years."
Arthur stood up, his massive frame suddenly looking very old. "I left the photo to see if you would protect her. To see if you were a good man."
"I am," I said fiercely.
"Good. Then you need to know one last thing," Arthur said, looking over his shoulder nervously. "Teresa didn't act alone in Chicago. She stole something from her first husband before she left. A bearer bond worth five million dollars. And she hid it inside a piece of jewelry."
He pointed to my chest.
I looked down at the photo still in my hand. In the picture, the younger Amy was wearing a small, silver locket.
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"Teresa didn't want the house, Connor," Arthur said. "She wanted the locket she accidentally packed in Amy's baby blanket thirty years ago. Does Amy still have it?"
I went cold. "No. But I know who does."
