Chapter 2
“No.”
She looked toward my father's portrait.
Then back at me.
“My mother saw the job posting.”
That surprised me.
“And?”
“She recognized the name.”
“Caldwell isn't unusual.”
“Ethan Caldwell was.”
I said nothing.
“She told me who you were,” Rebecca continued. “She said she hadn't heard anything about Daniel in years. She wondered whether you had.”
A bitter laugh escaped me.
“So you came here to investigate me?”
“No.”
Rebecca shook her head firmly.
“I came because the position paid well, the hours worked with Sammy's school schedule, and I needed stability. I knew who you were, yes. But my mother told me not to ask questions.”
“Why?”
“Because she said whatever happened between you and Daniel belonged to the two of you.”
I studied her carefully.
“Then why did Sammy know his name?”
Rebecca's expression softened.
“That part was my mistake.”
She looked toward the study door, almost as if she expected her son to appear.
“Last week my mother found an old photograph while cleaning out a closet. Sammy was with her. He asked who the people were.”
My throat tightened.
“What photograph?”
“Daniel. My mother. Me. Some other people from the community center.”
“And she told him?”
“She said, ‘That's my old friend Daniel.’”
I frowned.
“That still doesn't explain why he said the name to me.”
Rebecca hesitated.
“Sammy asked what happened to him.”
“And?”
“My mother said she didn't know. Then she told him Daniel had once had a younger brother named Ethan.”
Silence.
The room seemed to contract around that sentence.
“How did Sammy know I was that Ethan?”
Rebecca gave me a faint, almost apologetic smile.
“Because he's six, not oblivious.”
Despite everything, I nearly smiled back.
She continued.
“He's heard people call you Mr. Ethan for years. He asked my mother if you were Daniel's brother. She realized what she'd done and told him not to bother you with it.”
“And this morning he did.”
“He saw you crying.”
The simplicity of it stripped away some of my anger.
That was Sammy.
No scheme.
No hidden agenda.
A child saw a sad adult and tried to connect the few pieces he understood.
Still, another question remained.
“What did Daniel tell your mother about me?”
Rebecca looked down.
“Probably less than you're imagining.”
“That isn't comforting.”
“He said you were close when you were young.”
I looked away.
“He said you used to follow him everywhere.”
A memory flashed through me.
Seven years old, running three steps behind Daniel along the lakefront.
Ten years old, waiting outside his bedroom because he had promised to teach me a card trick.
Thirteen, pretending not to care when he started spending more time with his friends.
“What else?”
Rebecca's voice grew softer.
“He said your father expected a lot from you.”
I gave a short laugh.
“That sounds generous.”
“He also said you were better than you believed you had to be.”
My eyes returned to hers.
“What does that mean?”
“I don't know.”
Rebecca paused.
“But my mother remembered it because he said it more than once.”
Something moved painfully through my chest.
For years I had remembered the last things Daniel said to me.
Not the earlier ones.
Not the kinder ones.
Only the ending.
You got what you wanted, Ethan.
Now live with it.
Those were his final words to me.
I had replayed them during late nights in hotel rooms, after billion-dollar deals, after magazine covers, after my first mansion, after my father's death.
And then eventually I stopped replaying them at all.
“Where is your mother?” I asked.
“At home.”
“I want to meet her.”
Rebecca nodded slowly.
“I thought you might.”
“Today.”
She looked surprised.
“Mr. Caldwell—”
“Ethan.”
It was the first time I had ever asked her to call me that.
She blinked.
I didn't know why it mattered suddenly.
Maybe because for four years she had known something personal about me while I had treated her almost entirely as an employee.
Maybe because I was tired of hearing my surname spoken like a title.
“Today,” I repeated.
Rebecca glanced toward my wheelchair.
“My mother lives in a second-floor apartment.”
“I can manage.”
“The elevator has been broken since June.”
I looked at her.
For a moment, the old instinct rose inside me.
Call someone.
Fix it.
Pay for the repair.
Solve the inconvenience.
Then I caught myself.
“Then perhaps she can come here.”
Rebecca smiled faintly.
“I'll ask.”
She stood.
As she reached the door, I said, “Why didn't you ever tell me?”
She turned.
There was no easy answer on her face.
“Because you never spoke about your family.”
“That didn't stop you from knowing.”
“No.”
Her expression held steady.
“But you made it clear there were parts of your life no one was supposed to enter.”
The words stung because they were true.
Rebecca opened the door.
Then she paused.
“And because my mother always said that if you ever wanted to find Daniel, you would.”
After she left, I remained in my study for a long time.
If you ever wanted to find Daniel, you would.
The sentence sounded almost accusatory.
But Elena Alvarez had apparently never met the man I had become.
People assumed money made everything accessible.
It didn't.
Sometimes money merely gave you more elaborate ways to avoid what frightened you.
For nineteen years, I had possessed investigators, attorneys, databases, private aviation, connections in half the major cities in the country.
I could have found Daniel.
I simply hadn't tried.
That realization followed me through the rest of the morning.
At eleven, my physical therapist arrived.
Her name was Dr. Priya Shah, though she regularly reminded me she preferred Priya.
She was forty, relentlessly patient, and completely unimpressed by my wealth.
That was probably why I hadn't fired her.
“You missed yesterday's exercises,” she said after checking my mobility.
“I had meetings.”
“You canceled all your meetings.”
“I was busy canceling them.”
Priya gave me a look.
Before my accident, very few people looked at me like that.
Now apparently every sensible woman in my life had decided I required supervision.
“I'll do them today.”
“You said that Tuesday.”
“I'll do them twice.”
“That isn't how rehabilitation works.”
I frowned.
She adjusted one of the braces around my lower leg.
“I heard you were outside this morning.”
“Do you have informants?”
“You live in a house with fourteen employees.”
“Nine.”
“See? I already got bad intelligence.”
I almost laughed.
She noticed.
But unlike everyone else lately, she didn't treat the moment as a miracle.
She simply continued working.
After a while, I asked, “Priya, do you think I'll walk again?”
Her hands slowed.
We had discussed prognosis many times.
But perhaps she heard something different in the question.
She pulled over a chair and sat across from me.
“I think your case still has uncertainty.”
“That sounds like doctor language.”
“It is.”
“Translate.”
She considered her answer.
“You've made progress since the accident.”
“Not enough.”
“Not as fast as you'd like.”
“That's another way of saying not enough.”
“No.”
Her voice stayed calm.
“It's another way of saying recovery doesn't care about your schedule.”
I looked toward the window.
She continued.
“No responsible doctor can promise exactly how much function you'll regain. But ‘we don't know’ isn't the same as ‘nothing will improve.’”
For some reason, Sammy's face came to mind.
Can I pray for you?
Hope.
The word I had almost forgotten.
“What if I never walk normally again?”
Priya leaned back.
“Then we work on the fullest life available to you.”
I hated that answer.
Not because it was cruel.
Because it refused to bargain.
“That's not what I asked.”
“I know.”
“You're supposed to tell me not to give up.”
“I am telling you not to give up.”
She gestured toward the room.
“But giving up isn't only stopping therapy, Ethan. Sometimes giving up is deciding your life has value only if one specific outcome happens.”
I stared at her.
She stood.
“Exercises.”
I groaned.
“You ruin every meaningful conversation.”
“Occupational hazard.”
For the first time in weeks, I completed the entire session.
Not well.
Not gracefully.
But I finished.
Shortly after three, Rebecca knocked on the study door.
May you like
“My mother is here.”
My stomach tightened.
