My heartbeat stopped.
Howard laughed softly.
“Go ahead.”
The voicemail ended.
I stared at Mercer.
“What is he talking about?”
Mercer didn’t answer quickly enough.
“What is he talking about?”
“Michael—”
“Am I adopted?”
The room went silent.
Mercer sat down.
“Yes.”
One word.
Nineteen years of my life cracked open.
“No.”
“Your parents adopted you when you were eleven months old.”
“No.”
“They planned to tell you.”
“That’s what everyone says after they don’t tell someone!”
I stood so quickly the chair fell.
Mercer didn’t stop me.
“Who are my real parents?”
“Your parents are Margaret and Thomas.”
“You know what I mean!”
He looked at me.
“I don’t know.”
I laughed.
It sounded ugly.
“Perfect.”
I paced across the office.
“So that’s it?”
“What?”
“Howard’s last bomb.”
“Probably.”
I thought about Dad teaching me to ride a bicycle.
Mom sleeping on a chair beside me when I had pneumonia.
