“Why?” I asked.
Damon's breathing was uneven.
“Because you don't understand what happened.”
“Then explain it.”
“I can't do that over the phone.”
“You've had twenty-five years.”
“I know.”
“Then you can start now.”
He was silent.
I heard traffic in the background.
Finally he said, “Her name is Claire.”
I wrote it down.
“Claire what?”
“Claire Morgan.”
Jake was already searching on his phone.
“Where is she?”
“I don't know.”
“You said not to look for her.”
“I meant—”
“You know where she is.”
Damon exhaled.
“She lives in Oregon.”
Jake looked at me.
He had found something.
I held up one finger.
“Where in Oregon?”
Damon refused to answer.
“Damon.”
“I can't.”
“Then I'll find her myself.”
He became frightened.
“Elena, please.”
That word stopped me.
Damon rarely said please.
Not to me.
Not when he wanted something.
“Why are you afraid of Claire?”
“I’m not afraid of her.”
“You're afraid of what she knows.”
Silence.
That was the answer.
I hung up.
Jake showed me his screen.
“There are three Claire Morgans who fit the age.”
I looked at the names.
One lived near Portland.
Another lived outside Eugene.
The third had no current address.
I stared at the third name.
“That's her.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Damon said he didn't know where she was.”
Jake frowned.
“Meaning?”
“If he really didn't know, he wouldn't have sounded afraid.”
We spent the morning searching through old documents.
The metal box contained a bank receipt from twenty-six years earlier.
A payment to a private investigator.
My father had hired someone to locate Claire.
The investigator's name was printed at the bottom.
Jake searched for the company.
It no longer existed.
But an archived business listing showed the investigator's full name.
We found a retired attorney connected to the firm.
He was living less than an hour away.
I called.
A woman answered.
When I gave my name, she went quiet.
“Mrs. Hart?”
“Yes.”
“Who is calling?”
“My name is Elena Hart.”
The pause lasted several seconds.
Then the woman said, “I remember your father.”
My heart stopped.
“You knew him?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know anything about Claire Morgan?”
The woman did not answer.
“Please.”
She sighed.
“Your father asked us to find her.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“Where was she?”
The woman hesitated.
“She wasn't in Oregon.”
I looked at Jake.
“Where?”
“Arizona.”
I wrote down the city.
“Did my father know?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't he contact her?”
“Because she asked him not to.”
“Why?”
Another pause.
Then the woman said, “Because she was afraid of Damon.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“Afraid of what he would do?”
“I don't know.”
“Please.”
The woman lowered her voice.
“Your father told us that if you ever came asking, we should tell you one thing.”
“What?”
“Claire didn't leave Damon because she stopped loving him.”
I swallowed.
“Then why?”
The woman answered.
“She left because she discovered what he had done.”
The call ended shortly afterward.
I sat motionless.
Jake looked at me.
“What did he do?”
“I don't know.”
But I was beginning to understand something.
The story Damon had told me was incomplete from the beginning.
That afternoon, I drove alone to the address the attorney had given me.
Jake wanted to come.
I refused.
Not because I wanted to hide anything.
Because I needed one conversation without my children standing between me and another piece of my husband's past.
The address belonged to a small house at the edge of town.
A woman in her late fifties answered the door.
She looked at me.
Then at the photograph I carried.
Her face changed.
“You're Elena.”
I nodded.
“Claire?”
She stepped aside.
“Yes.”
I entered.
The house smelled faintly of coffee and cedar.
Claire looked nothing like the woman in the photograph.
Her hair was silver now.
Her face was lined.
But her eyes were the same.
I knew immediately.
She sat across from me.
“I wondered if you'd ever come.”
“I didn't know you existed until last night.”
She smiled sadly.
“I was hoping you never would.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted you to have a normal life.”
I almost laughed.
“I've been married to Damon for twenty-five years.”
Claire looked down.
“I know.”
“You knew?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“He told me.”
My stomach tightened.
“When?”
“Many years ago.”
“After we married?”
“Yes.”
I stared at her.
“He contacted you?”
“Once.”
“What did he want?”
“To know whether I still had the documents.”
“What documents?”
She looked toward a cabinet.
Then back at me.
“The ones proving your marriage was not the first thing he lied about.”
I felt cold.
“What did he lie about?”
Claire took a slow breath.
“Damon wasn't forced into our marriage.”
I frowned.
“He told me he had no choice.”
Claire shook her head.
“That was his favorite story.”
I sat very still.
“He chose me.”
The words sounded strange.
Claire continued.
“Then he met Marissa.”
“Why did you marry him?”
“Because I was pregnant.”
The room seemed to disappear.
I stared at her.
Claire looked directly into my eyes.
“Damon had a child before you.”
I could not breathe.
“Where is the child?”
Claire's face changed.
“I don't know.”
“What do you mean?”
“I lost contact with Damon after the divorce.”
“But you said he contacted you.”
“He did.”
“When?”
“After your first son was born.”
My hands went numb.
Jake.
I thought of Jake.
His birthday.
The dates.
The timing.
I shook my head.
“No.”
Claire's eyes filled.
“I don't know what he told you.”
I stood.
“Is Jake Damon’s child?”
Claire looked at me.
Then she whispered the words that shattered the room.
“No.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 8: Claire Told Me the Child Was Not Damon’s, but the Next Name She Spoke Made Me Question Everything I Knew About Jake
The Dress I Chose to Celebrate Fifty Years of Becoming Everyone Else Before Finally Choosing Myself
Part 7 of 10
