Chapter 7 - Ghosts of the Past
Grace pushed herself back against the green velvet cushions of the booth, her heart pounding so hard against her ribs it felt like a trapped bird.
“What are you talking about?” Grace’s voice rose, laced with sharp edge of hysteria. “Mr. Whitmore, my mother died four years ago in a tiny town two hundred miles from here! She never stepped foot in a restaurant like this! How do you know her food?”
James closed his eyes briefly, taking a long, ragged breath that rattled in his chest. When he opened them again, the fierce, unyielding pride that defined his multi-billion-dollar persona was entirely shattered.
He didn't answer with words right away. Instead, James reached slowly into his inner vest pocket. His hand came out holding a small, worn leather wallet—not the sleek, designer alligator-skin billfold he used for his credit cards, but an old, scuffed brown leather wallet held together by frayed stitching.
With trembling fingers, James opened the worn wallet and pulled out a faded, color photograph.
The edges of the photo were dog-eared and yellowed with age.
James stepped forward, his hand shaking as he gently laid the photograph onto the white tablecloth right beside Grace’s dinner plate.
Grace looked down at the photo.
The picture showed a tiny, rundown diner with peeling white paint and a neon sign reading The Bluebird Cafe. Standing outside on the dusty gravel parking lot were three people in the bright, harsh summer sun of fifteen years ago.
On the left was a young, smiling woman in a floral apron—Grace’s mother, Eleanor.
In the middle was a fourteen-year-old girl with messy brown hair tied in a ponytail—Grace herself.
And standing on the right, with his arm draped around young Grace’s shoulders, wearing a grease-stained white t-shirt and dark jeans, was a dark-haired nineteen-year-old boy with a wide, brilliant smile and a faint scar running through his left eyebrow.
Grace stared at the teenage boy in the photograph. Her eyes dilated in shock.
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She looked up at James Whitmore—at his dark hair, his jawline, his hazel eyes—and the missing piece of her entire life suddenly crashed into place with devastating force.
“Jimmy...?” Grace gasped, her voice completely losing its air. “Jimmy... the dishwasher?”
