My blood ran cold. “What?”
“He went to the house. Robert saw him arrive and insisted on knowing why. Andrew demanded answers. I denied it. He pushed. Robert pushed harder.” Her breath caught. “Jack’s name came up.”
I gripped the counter.
“Did you tell Robert?”
“No. Not yet.” A horrible pause. “But I may have to.”
“Then tell him the truth.”
A bitter laugh snapped through the line. “You say that as if truth is clean.”
She hung up.
I stood in silence for three full seconds before I grabbed my keys.
The Whitmore house blazed with light when I pulled up, rain still coming down in sheets.
I didn’t bother with an umbrella.
I could hear shouting before I reached the front door.
Inside, the foyer smelled like wet wool and cigar smoke.
Robert’s voice thundered from the study. “Don’t insult me with half-truths in my own house.”
Andrew answered with a tone I had never heard from him. “Then ask your wife why she’s pregnant.”
My stomach turned.
I ran toward the study.
Robert stood behind his desk, one hand braced against the wood, face red with rage. Andrew was soaked through, hair dripping onto his collar. Eleanor stood near the fireplace, pale and rigid, one hand pressed against her middle.
All three turned when I entered.
For one split second, no one spoke.
Then Robert looked at me and said, “Since my daughter-in-law seems to be the family archivist now, perhaps she would like to explain what the hell is going on.”
I looked at Andrew.
His face was devastated. Not angry now. Just wrecked.
Eleanor spoke first. “Leave Hannah out of this.”
“Like you left me out of my own life?” Andrew shot back.
Robert’s gaze flicked between them. “Eleanor.”
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