He stopped walking.
For a terrifying five seconds, the billionaire founder of Oakbridge Academy just stared at me. He looked at my cheap, worn-out shoes. He looked at the massive red stain covering my white dress.
And then, his eyes zeroed in on my left collar.
The heavy brass sparrow.
Reverend Thomas dropped his silver cane.
The heavy metal clattered loudly against the polished floor, the sound echoing like a gunshot. He didn’t even flinch.
His entire imposing, terrifying demeanor completely shattered in a fraction of a second. The color drained from his weathered face, leaving him looking pale, fragile, and suddenly very old.
He took a slow, trembling step toward me. Then another.
His security detail shifted nervously, but nobody dared to speak.
He stopped less than two feet in front of me. I was frozen, terrified to even blink. Up close, I could see that his icy blue eyes were suddenly welling up with tears.
He reached out a shaking hand. He didn’t touch me. He just hovered his fingers over the dull brass pin on my ruined collar.
“Where…” His voice cracked. It was a deep, gravelly whisper that sounded like it had been scraped over broken glass. “Where did you get this?”
I swallowed hard, trying to push past the suffocating lump in my throat.
“My… my grandfather gave it to me,” I whispered back, my voice barely audible.
Reverend Thomas let out a sharp, ragged breath. He closed his eyes, a tear finally escaping and rolling down his wrinkled cheek.
“The man you call your grandfather,” Thomas said, his voice trembling with an emotion I couldn’t identify. Was it anger? Grief? “Did he have a deep burn scar on the left side of his face?”
My heart slammed against my ribs. “Yes,” I said, my voice shaking. “From his eyebrow down to his jaw.”
Thomas opened his eyes. The sorrow in them was suddenly replaced by a blazing, terrifying fury.
He slowly turned his head to look at Mrs. Alcott, who was standing frozen next to me.
“Secure the perimeter of the county,” Thomas barked, his voice suddenly booming with absolute authority. He didn’t even look back at his men, but I heard them immediately speaking into their radios.
“Mr. Thomas, I—” Mrs. Alcott started, but he cut her off with a sharp raise of his hand.
He turned back to me. The anger in his eyes softened just a fraction, but his intensity was still overwhelming.
“Clara,” he said. My real name sounded so strange coming from his mouth. “Fourteen years ago, my son and his wife were driving home from a holiday party. Their car was forced off a bridge and into a freezing river by a man driving a stolen truck.”
I stared at him, my mouth slightly open, the blood rushing in my ears.
“They both died instantly,” Thomas continued, his voice trembling again. “But my granddaughter… my three-year-old granddaughter who was strapped into the back seat… she vanished.”
He pointed a shaking finger at the brass pin.
“The police searched that river for six months. They found nothing. But the man who drove that truck… the man who pulled my granddaughter from the wreckage and disappeared into the night… he survived. He had severe burns on his face from the explosion.”
The room started to spin. My legs felt like they were made of lead.
The quiet old man in the cabin. The man who had saved me from freezing to death. The man I had loved and called my grandfather for thirteen years.
He wasn’t my savior.
He was the man who killed my real parents. He was my kidnapper.
“No,” I whispered, shaking my head violently, tears suddenly pouring down my face. “No, you’re lying. He was a good man! He found me and my mother in a car in the snow! He took us in!”
Reverend Thomas stopped. He tilted his head, a look of pure, terrifying confusion crossing his face.
“Your mother?” he repeated slowly. The words sounded incredibly dangerous.
“Yes!” I sobbed, stepping back from him. “My mother! She’s been with me my whole life. She was with me when he found us!”
Thomas stared at me in dead silence for what felt like an eternity.
He slowly reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a small, worn leather wallet. With shaking hands, he opened it and pulled out a faded, creased photograph.
He handed it to me.
My hands were trembling so badly I could barely hold the small piece of paper. I looked down at the image.
It was a picture of a beautiful, smiling woman standing next to Reverend Thomas. She had my eyes. She had my exact smile. She was heavily pregnant, radiating joy.
“That is my daughter-in-law,” Thomas whispered, his voice cracking. “That is your real mother, Clara. She died in the river that night.”
I stared at the photo. The woman in the picture looked absolutely nothing like the woman I lived with. The woman who cleaned houses, who told me we lost everything in a fire, who had raised me in that cramped apartment for fourteen years.