Chapter 2 - Four Toothbrushes
The Tribeca apartment had never felt like mine.
That night it smelled like tomato soup, wet wool, and children's toothpaste.
Four tiny toothbrushes stood in a coffee mug beside my sink.
I stared at them longer than I should have.
Mara noticed.
“Don't make it sentimental,” she said.
“I wasn't.”
“You were.”
“I was looking at toothbrushes.”
“Exactly.”
She had changed out of her server uniform and into an old gray sweatshirt.
My sweatshirt.
I recognized the faded Columbia rowing logo.
“You kept that?”
She looked down, annoyed at herself.
“It was warm.”
Milo appeared in the hallway.
“Mom says rich people have extra rooms for no reason.”
Mara closed her eyes.
“Milo.”
“What? He does.”
I almost smiled.
“Your mom is right.”
“See?”
Then Max ran past wearing one of my dress shirts like a cape.
Mason followed, shouting, “He's the evil banker!”
“I am not an evil banker,” I said.
Micah, quietest of the four, looked up from the floor.
“What kind are you?”
Mara laughed.
She tried to stop it.
That made it worse.
For three seconds, the room felt dangerously normal.
Then she placed a thick envelope on the kitchen counter.
“Open it.”
Inside were four birth certificates.
Father: blank.
I read each one twice.
“You never put my name down.”
“I tried.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means your family lawyer showed up at the hospital before I was discharged.”
My stomach dropped.
“Who?”
“Gerald Voss.”
I knew the name.
Everyone in my family did.
Voss had handled Whitaker trusts, acquisitions, divorces, scandals, and funerals for thirty years.
“He told me you wanted nothing to do with us,” Mara said.
“I never sent him.”
“I know that now.”
“Why now?”
She stared at me.
“Because six years ago I was broke, scared, and carrying four premature babies. I didn't have the luxury of conducting an investigation into your family.”
I deserved that.
Still, anger rose.
“You could've called me.”
“I did.”
“I changed my number.”
“I called your office.”
“No one told me.”
“I emailed.”
“I never got anything.”
“I came to New York.”
That stopped me.
“When?”
“Three weeks after the boys came home from the NICU.”
She walked to her duffel bag and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
A visitor rejection form from Whitaker Holdings.
At the bottom was a handwritten note.
DO NOT ADMIT. SECURITY RISK.
Authorized by: E. Whitaker.
My mother's initial.
I sat down.
Mara stayed standing.
“I hated you for years,” she said.
“I earned some of it.”
“Some?”
“Okay. A lot.”
She looked almost surprised by the answer.
Then Micah walked into the kitchen holding a small silver object.
“Mom, this fell out of your bag.”
Mara's face drained.
It was a flash drive.
She snatched it too quickly.
I stood.
“What is that?”
“Nothing.”
“Mara.”
She backed away.
“No.”
“You came here demanding truth.”
“Not this truth.”
“What is on it?”
Before she could answer, the apartment buzzer rang.
The doorman's voice came through.
“Mr. Whitaker? Mr. Gerald Voss is downstairs.”
Mara whispered one word.
May you like
“Run.”
