Chapter 2 - The Name Harlon Had Heard Before
Harlon unlocked the bedroom door.
“Claire, you need to leave.”
Loretta spun toward him.
“She just kicked our son in the face.”
“After he swung at her.”
Thatcher touched his cheek.
“You saw what she did.”
“I saw what you did first.”
I had never heard Harlon contradict Thatcher that quickly.
Neither had Loretta.
“What is happening?” I asked.
Harlon stared at the pendant again.
“Daniel Mercer was your father?”
“Yes.”
“Your legal name before today was Claire Monroe.”
“My mother’s surname.”
Harlon shut his eyes.
My parents had never married.
Dad was Daniel Mercer.
Mom was Rebecca Monroe.
I had always used Monroe.
Suddenly the reason Harlon had never connected us was obvious.
“How did you know him?”
Loretta interrupted.
“Harlon, don’t.”
I looked at her.
“You knew too?”
Thatcher sounded almost angry at being excluded.
“Who the hell was he?”
Harlon looked at his son.
“Someone who warned me about you.”
No one moved.
Thatcher laughed first.
“What?”
Harlon did not repeat himself.
Instead he told me to take my phone, my dress bag, and anything else I needed.
“You’re not spending the night here.”
“Neither is he,” I said.
Loretta snapped, “This suite belongs to our family.”
The bedroom was in the guest wing of the Hale family estate in Belle Meade, where the wedding reception had taken place downstairs.
She was technically right.
It didn’t matter.
I wanted out.
My maid of honor, Rachel Cooper, answered on the first ring.
By the time she reached the upstairs hallway, Thatcher had developed swelling along his cheek and was complaining of dizziness.
Loretta shifted instantly into maternal crisis.
“We’re taking him to the ER.”
Then she looked at me.
“You did this.”
“He raised his hand.”
“You could’ve walked away.”
“The door was locked.”
Harlon’s eyes moved toward Thatcher.
Thatcher said, “I was trying to keep her from making a scene.”
Rachel stared at him.
“At her own wedding?”
Loretta ignored her.
“Claire, you need to think very carefully before you start telling people some dramatic story that destroys everybody’s lives.”
There it was.
Less than thirty minutes after her son tried to hit me, his mother was already negotiating the version.
Harlon looked sick.
Rachel helped me put on my robe and shoes.
Before leaving, I stopped beside Harlon.
“You’re going to tell me what you meant.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“No.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“Tonight.”
Thatcher laughed from the bed.
“Of course. Because everything has to happen on Claire’s terms now.”
I turned toward the man I had married seven hours earlier.
For nineteen months he had been charming, attentive, occasionally jealous, occasionally controlling in ways I kept translating into concern.
Now I saw something else.
He wasn’t shocked that he had frightened me.
He was furious that frightening me had failed.
Rachel drove me to her apartment in Green Hills.
At 2:14 a.m., Harlon called.
He spoke without greeting.
“Twenty-three years ago, your father investigated my son.”
I sat upright.
“Thatcher would’ve been twelve.”
“Not Thatcher.”
Harlon went quiet.
May you like
“My older son, Andrew.”
That was the first thing I had ever heard about Thatcher having a brother.
