She reached for the envelope, slid a manicured nail under the flap, adjusted her glasses, and began to read.
At first, her face held that familiar smug expression.
Then it vanished.
All the color drained from her cheeks—then rushed back so quickly she turned blotchy red.
Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
“This… this makes no sense,” she whispered.
My heart started pounding.
“What does it say?” Dave demanded.
She folded the paper too quickly. “There must be a mistake.”
Robert extended his hand. “Give it here.”
“It’s obviously wrong,” she snapped.
“Patricia.”
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
She hesitated—but he took the paper from her anyway.
He read it for maybe ten seconds.
Then he looked up at her and said, “You’ve dug your own grave.”
The room fell completely silent.
Dave stood up so abruptly his chair scraped loudly across the floor. “What does that mean?”
Robert handed him the results.
I watched Dave read.
I had never seen a person’s face transform like that.
Confusion. Disbelief. Then something deeper.
He looked at Patricia. “What is this?”
She shook her head rapidly. “It means the company made an error.”
Dave looked back at the paper. “Sam is my son.”
Then, in a strangled voice, he added,
“And apparently I’m not Robert’s.”
“What?” I said.
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