Not well, but enough.
He had been my mother’s lawyer after her diagnosis. He came to our apartment once, carrying a leather briefcase and smelling like peppermint. He had spoken softly, called my mother “Anna,” and told me not to worry about adult matters.
I had worried anyway.
“He knew us,” I said.
Harrison’s expression sharpened. “You recognize him?”
“He helped my mother before she died.”
“When was this?”
“Two years ago.”
Harrison turned toward one of his aides. “Find current contact information for Peter Langford. Now.”
The aide stepped away with his phone.
I sat back down because my knees suddenly felt unreliable.
“My mother knew,” I whispered. “She must have known.”
“Maybe.”
I looked at him sharply. “Don’t make excuses for her.”
“I’m not. I’m saying we don’t know what she was told. We don’t know what she feared.”
That word—feared—stayed with me.
My mother had been afraid often, but quietly. She checked locks twice. Avoided certain neighborhoods. Paid cash when she could. Never posted our pictures online. I had thought poverty made her cautious.
Maybe something else had.
“My brother,” I said suddenly.
Harrison’s eyes lifted.
“Ethan. Is he—”
“Jonathan’s son?” Harrison asked gently.
I nodded.
“I don’t know. The trust mentions only one expected child. You. But that doesn’t mean anything. We need records.”
“Ethan is seventeen. He has a heart condition. He can’t get dragged into some billionaire family drama.”
“I agree.”
“You don’t know him. He’s stubborn and proud and scared all the time, though he’d rather choke than admit it. If he thinks someone is trying to rescue us, he’ll hate it.”
“I’m not here to rescue you.”
I looked at him.
Harrison held my gaze. “I’m here because my brother may have had a daughter. Because that daughter may have been denied what he left for her. Because she saved my life without knowing who I was. And because I owe Jonathan the truth.”
The name Jonathan sounded different each time he said it.
Not like a file. Like a wound.