Chapter 4
Story: She Slapped Her at the Estate Reception, Then a Photograph Fell From the Old Jacket
The confrontation happened in Dorothy's kitchen, three days after Wren saw the footage, and it went exactly the way these things always did with Dorothy — loud, theatrical, and one step away from violence.
Wren had driven to the estate with the photograph in her jacket pocket and her lawyer's number on speed dial. She hadn't called Marcus. She wanted to do this face to face, the way her father would have done it, the way the family had always done things. Straight answers, straight looks, no hiding behind lawyers and sealed documents.
Dorothy was at the kitchen island when Wren walked in, a glass of white wine in her hand, the afternoon light catching her blue-streaked bob. She looked up, and the warmth drained from her face.
"Wren. I didn't expect you."
"No. You usually don't." Wren stood in the doorway, feeling the weight of the photograph against her chest. "Where's Theo?"
"With Rosalind. They're in the garden. Why —"
"Good." Wren closed the door behind her. "He shouldn't have to hear this."
Dorothy set her glass down slowly. Her bangles clinked against the marble of the island. "Hear what?"
Wren crossed the room. She pulled the photograph from her jacket and laid it on the island, face up, the worn edges catching the light. She watched Dorothy's eyes drop to it, watched the color drain from her face, watched the careful performance crack.
"I found this," Wren said quietly. "In Dad's jacket. The one you tried to take from me at the reception. The one he gave me the week before he died."
Dorothy stared at the photograph. Her lips moved, but no sound came out.
"His name is Theo," Wren said. "He is a four-year-old boy. He is your grandson. And you pinned a sign to his chest that says 'NOT A HALLOWAY' and took a photograph of him." She heard her own voice crack, and she didn't care. "He's a child. What kind of person does that to a child?"
Dorothy's hand reached for the photograph, but Wren was faster. She pulled it back, out of reach, and held it against her chest.
"You don't get to touch it," she said. "You don't get to tear it up. You don't get to call it a misunderstanding. I have the security footage of you pinning that sign hours before the reception. I have the footage of you taking a photograph of him. I have everything I need to take you to court and make sure you never come near him again."
For a long moment, Dorothy was silent. Then her face changed. The fear was there, unmistakable this time, but under it was something else — something hard and desperate.
"Take it to court," Dorothy said quietly. "And you'll bring it all down. All of it. The family, the estate, the name your father spent his life building. You'll drag it through the mud, and for what? For a child who isn't even —"
She stopped. The words hung in the air, unfinished.
"Isn't even what?" Wren asked. Her voice was very calm. She had learned, over the years, that the calmest voice was the one that scared Dorothy most.
Dorothy shook her head. "Nothing."
"No." Wren stepped closer. "You were going to say something just now. You were going to say 'a child who isn't even a Halloway.' You were going to say it, the same way you said it at the reception. The same way it's written on the sign you pinned to his chest. So say it. Say it to my face."
Dorothy's jaw worked. Her hands gripped the edge of the island. The gold bangles trembled against the marble.
"He isn't," Dorothy said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "He isn't a Halloway. And if you keep pushing, if you keep digging, you'll find out why. And I promise you, you won't like what you find."
Wren stared at her. The photograph was heavy in her hand. The footage was on her phone. The answers, she knew, were buried somewhere in the estate records — sealed, hidden, waiting.
"What doesn't he know, Dorothy?" she asked. "What are you so afraid of that you'd pin a sign on a four-year-old and photograph him like evidence?"
Dorothy didn't answer. She turned away, walked to the window that overlooked the garden, and stood with her back to the room. Wren could see Theo and Rosalind through the glass, small figures walking slowly along the gravel path, Theo in his red hoodie, Rosalind in cream.
"Get out," Dorothy said quietly.
"Not until you tell me —"
"Get out." Dorothy's voice cracked. "You want the truth? You want to know what's in the records? Then come back with a court order. Because I'm not telling you anything else. Not until you're ready to hear it."
The words struck Wren like a physical blow. She stood still, the photograph in her hand, the answer just out of reach.
She walked out of the kitchen without another word.
Later that night, she found the second photograph.
It was in the inside pocket of the jacket again, in a hidden seam she'd somehow missed, a small fold of fabric she'd never noticed. The paper was older, yellower, the edges more worn — clearly handled many times.
It was a photograph of her father. Young, in the same jacket, standing on the grounds of the estate. And in his arms, he held a small child.
A child in a red hoodie.
The same red hoodie Theo always wore. The same short black curls. The same small face turned away from the camera, hiding from the lens.
Wren's hands shook as she studied the photograph. The child couldn't be Theo — the photo was old, the colors faded, her father young, the estate's trees still small. But the resemblance was unmistakable.
The same red hoodie. The same turned-away face. The same small hands clutching her father's shoulders.
She turned the photograph over. On the back, in her father's careful handwriting, was a date.
And a name.
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