Hands cupped his face. Familiar hands.
“They told me you didn’t want to see me,” Eleanor Whitmore whispered. “That you were ashamed.”
“It was a lie,” he sobbed, falling to his knees. “I was blind long before the accident.”
In that tiny house, with rain slipping through parts of the roof, he learned the truth. His sister, Clara, had died the year before from complications that simple treatment could have prevented. Letters begging for help had never reached him. Victoria had intercepted everything.
Guilt and fury churned inside him. But when his mother sat him at the old wooden table—scarred, worn, strong—he felt something steadier than anger.
He felt home.
The peace shattered with sirens.
Police surrounded the house. Victoria had reported a kidnapping, claiming Alex had suffered a mental break and been abducted.
“Come out slowly!” an officer shouted.
Grace clung to him.
Alex stepped forward, guided by her voice. Helicopter blades thudded overhead.
“Alex!” Victoria cried theatrically. “Thank God you’re alive!”
Officers moved toward Eleanor and Grace.