Chapter 2 - Four Pages from a Dead Woman
Bastion did not open the letter until midnight.
Willa was asleep in the guest suite of his penthouse—or at least she had claimed she would sleep. A housekeeper had found clean pajamas, and Marcus had stationed two guards outside the building.
Bastion sat alone in the back of his parked car beneath the tower.
Rain tapped against the windshield.
He broke the seal.
Norah’s handwriting filled four pages.
She apologized for not calling. She admitted she had hidden their daughter from him for eight years. She explained the ovarian cancer, the failed treatment, and the months she had spent teaching Willa how to reach him.
Then came the sentence that made Bastion stop breathing.
Her name is Willa. She is eight years old. She has your eyes.
He read it twice.
The words did not become easier.
Norah wrote about Willa’s fear of escalators, her love of macaroni and cheese, and her habit of pretending not to be the smartest child in the room.
She wrote that Willa had never cried in front of someone she did not completely trust.
The final lines were the hardest.
I’m not asking you to love her. I know better than to ask you for things you don’t know how to give.
But she is yours, and she has nowhere else to go.
Please try to be a different kind of man for her.
Bastion folded the letter with precise movements.
Then he sat motionless until Marcus opened the passenger door.
“You’ve been down here forty minutes,” Marcus said.
Bastion didn’t answer.
Marcus noticed the paper. “Is she yours?”
“That’s what Norah says.”
“You believe her?”
Bastion looked through the windshield. “Norah lied by omission. She didn’t invent things.”
“A test will confirm it.”
“I know.”
Marcus climbed into the passenger seat and shut the door.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Find out everything that happened during the last fourteen months. Doctors, treatments, legal records, debts. Find out who entered her apartment after she died.”
Marcus studied him.
“You think someone did?”
“I think an eight-year-old crossed Chicago with a bag containing her life. That means either no one helped her or someone wanted her unprotected.”
“The neighbor?”
“Check him.”
Marcus nodded.
“And child services?” he asked.
“Daniel will handle them.”
“With temporary guardianship?”
Bastion’s jaw tightened.
“For now.”
Marcus looked down at his hands. “You know what happens if the other crews hear you have a daughter.”
“They won’t.”
“They will.”
Bastion turned toward him.
“Then make them afraid to say her name.”
Upstairs, the penthouse was dark except for a lamp in the library.
Willa sat on the floor beside a wall of books. She still wore the borrowed pajamas, but her canvas tote was packed and resting beside her.
Bastion stopped in the doorway.
“You’re supposed to be sleeping.”
“I couldn’t.”
“So you packed?”
“I never unpacked.”
He walked into the room. “Why?”
“In case you say no.”
Bastion put the letter on the desk.
Her eyes dropped to it.
“Did you read everything?”
“Yes.”
“Was she mad?”
“No.”
“Sad?”
“Yes.”
Willa pulled her knees against her chest.
“She was sad a lot near the end. She tried to hide it.”
Bastion sat in the chair across from her. It felt too high, so he moved to the edge of the desk instead.
“Why didn’t you go with child services?”
“Because Mom said strangers would make decisions before you knew I existed.”
“They were trying to keep you safe.”
“They didn’t know me.”
“Neither do I.”
Willa looked directly at him. “You knew her.”
“That was nine years ago.”
“She said you remembered everything.”
Bastion frowned. “What else did she say about me?”
“That you don’t forgive people.”
“Your mother knew me well.”
“She also said you don’t break promises.”
Bastion leaned forward.
“Did I promise her something?”
“No. She said that was the problem.”
The answer hit with uncomfortable accuracy.
Willa’s fingers traced a tear in the canvas tote.
“Are you my father?”
“That’s what the letter says.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Bastion held her gaze. “We’ll take a test tomorrow.”
“And if it says you are?”
“Then we decide what happens next.”
Her face closed again.
“You decide.”
“We both do.”
“Adults say that when they already made the decision.”
Bastion exhaled through his nose.
“You’re difficult.”
“My mother said you liked that about her.”
He almost laughed. The sound caught somewhere in his chest.
“I did.”
Willa glanced around the library.
“Do you live here alone?”
“Yes.”
“Why are there twelve chairs in the dining room?”
“For guests.”
“Do guests come?”
“No.”
“Then why have chairs?”
Bastion looked toward the dark dining room.
“I’ve never thought about it.”
“Mom said rich people buy things for lives they don’t have.”
This time, Bastion did laugh.
One quiet, surprised sound.
Willa stared at him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You laughed.”
“I’m aware.”
“You don’t look like someone who laughs.”
“You don’t look like someone who crosses a city alone.”
She looked away. “I was scared.”
It was the first time she admitted it.
Bastion’s voice lowered. “You didn’t show it.”
“Mom said fear is information, not instructions.”
He recognized the phrase. He had said it to Norah years earlier when she was preparing for a hostile corporate hearing.
She had remembered.
Willa looked at the letter.
“Did Mom ask you to keep me?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to?”
Bastion could negotiate multimillion-dollar contracts without pausing. He could order men out of Chicago with a sentence. He could stare down armed enemies without changing expression.
But he could not promise an eight-year-old forever before sunrise.
“I won’t let anyone take you tonight,” he said.
“That isn’t forever.”
“No.”
“Is it tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
She considered that, then nodded.
“Okay.”
Willa climbed to her feet and lifted the tote.
Bastion reached for it.
She pulled it away. “I can carry it.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you try?”
“Because you shouldn’t have to carry everything.”
Her lower lip trembled.
She turned away immediately.
Bastion remembered Norah’s letter.
She has never once cried in front of someone she didn’t completely trust.
Willa pressed the heel of her hand against one eye.
Bastion remained still.
He didn’t approach her. He didn’t tell her not to cry. He simply waited.
After a moment, she whispered, “I don’t remember the last thing I said to her.”
Bastion’s throat tightened.
“You don’t have to.”
“What if it was something mean?”
“Then she knew you didn’t mean it.”
“How?”
“Because mothers know.”
Willa turned around. Tears ran silently down her cheeks.
“You don’t know anything about mothers.”
“No,” Bastion said. “But I knew yours.”
She stood there for several seconds.
Then, cautiously, she crossed the space between them and leaned against his arm.
Bastion froze.
His hands remained at his sides until Willa’s shoulders shook.
Then he placed one hand lightly against the back of her head.
May you like
He did not know whether he was comforting her correctly.
But she did not move away.
