Chapter 3 - THE BROTHER I WASN'T SUPPOSED TO HAVE
My first reaction was not emotional.
It was administrative.
“No.”
Michael nodded as if he expected that.
“My mother's maiden name was Reed.”
“I know.”
“She married my father, Thomas Reed, when she was nineteen.”
I looked at Vanessa.
She knew.
That made everything worse.
Michael continued.
“They divorced when I was ten. She remarried Richard Bennett three years later.”
My father.
The man I had buried nine years ago.
“Then she had you.”
I sat on the bottom stair.
The old childhood memory shifted again.
Someone lifting me onto a kitchen counter.
Someone teaching me to throw a baseball left-handed because I kept switching hands.
Someone yelling at my father.
A slammed door.
Then nothing.
“What happened to you?”
Michael looked at the floor.
“My father moved to Oregon.”
“You went with him.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“I was sixteen. You were six.”
That explained why the memory was barely there.
“Why don't I remember you as my brother?”
His mouth tightened.
“Ask the dead people.”
I stood.
“No. Ask the living one.”
He looked at me.
“What did Mom tell you?”
“That you got sick.”
Michael went still.
“What?”
“Not immediately.”
I rubbed my forehead.
“She barely talked about you. When I was eleven or twelve, I found an old Christmas card with ‘Michael’ signed inside. I asked.”
“What did she say?”
“That you were someone from her first marriage.”
“Then?”
“Later she told me you died.”
Michael's expression changed.
“When?”
“I don't know. Construction accident. Something in Oregon.”
He laughed once.
Not because it was funny.
“She told me you died of meningitis.”
Silence.
Vanessa whispered:
“Daniel.”
I turned on her.
“How do you know him?”
She looked toward the kitchen.
“Not here.”
“Lily can't hear us.”
“Staff can.”
“I'm past caring.”
Michael spoke before Vanessa could.
“She found me.”
I looked at him.
“When?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“How?”
Vanessa answered.
“Title counsel.”
That made even less sense.
Until it didn't.
Our estate had been in my mother's family for seventy years.
After Margaret died, the property passed through the Bennett Family Residence Trust.
I had lived there since.
Paid taxes.
Renovated it.
Borrowed against other properties using it in my personal financial statement.
I had never considered that anyone else might have a current interest.
Then I remembered the refinancing delay.
Our lender had asked for an old trust amendment.
Vanessa had said she was handling it.
I looked at her.
“No.”
She said nothing.
“You found Michael because of the refinance.”
“Yes.”
Michael removed another document from his pocket.
This one he did hand me.
BENNETT FAMILY RESIDENCE TRUST — BENEFICIARY RELEASE AND QUITCLAIM
His name.
Michael Thomas Reed.
My address.
And at the bottom:
A place for his signature.
I stared at Vanessa.
“You brought him into this house to sign this?”
“I brought him here to resolve a title problem.”
“Without telling me he existed.”
“You were supposed to be downtown until six.”
That answer was so awful I almost admired its useless honesty.
Michael looked at me.
“She told me you weren't part of the negotiation.”
Vanessa said:
“Because legally—”
“Stop.”
I looked at Michael.
“Did she tell you I was dead?”
“No.”
That surprised me.
He pointed toward the old photograph.
“Your mother did that.”
Vanessa had hidden him.
Margaret had buried him.
Different wrongs.
Then Michael said:
“I wasn't going to sign.”
Vanessa turned.
“You told me you'd consider it.”
“I did.”
“What changed?”
Michael looked at me.
“Your sister.”
My stomach tightened.
“Claire?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know Claire?”
May you like
Michael's answer opened the next door.
“She found me seven months before she died.”
