“You’ll actually come?”
“Of course.”
“Try not to embarrass yourself.”
I looked at the band round my daughter’s ankle.
BABY GIRL HALLIDAY.
My name. Not his.
“I won’t.”
He chuckled. “Still pretending you’ve got something to be proud of?”
And I said: “I’ve got proof.”
And the line went completely silent.
“Proof of what?”
“Send me the address.”
What was in the folder.
On the chair next to that bed was a leather folder my grandmother’s solicitor had given me in the September.
Bank statements. Emails. Two signed affidavits. All of it showing that Ondine Marr had moved money out of an account connected to the inheritance my grandmother left me.
And underneath all of it, a court-certified report, obtained in
the August on my solicitor’s advice, from a sample taken before my daughter was born.
Ellis Prentiss is her father. On paper, stamped, before she drew a breath.
And then my phone buzzed with the address, and there was a document attached, because Ondine Marr is the sort of woman who sends her guests a six-page briefing pack.
