“No. He’s too cheap for that.” “What about the doctor?”
Gregory gave a short smile with no humor in it. “The doctor is a separate problem. Linda has a contact in the DA’s office. I’ll pay what needs paying.” For two weeks Marina helped Gregory get ready.
Not physically. Mentally. He wasn’t afraid of Adam. He was afraid of something else—that he’d see his son and lose his nerve, that he’d pity him, that he’d forgive him. “I won’t,” he said in the evenings, but his voice was never fully certain, and Marina heard something in it he probably didn’t hear himself. She bought him clothes at a thrift store: a sport coat, a shirt, slacks.
They had to guess at the size because Gregory had lost weight over those weeks. His cheekbones stood out now. His neck looked thin. But once he dressed, shaved, and combed his hair, the man whose name had been on the company sign came back into view. Straight back. Heavy, steady gaze. The kind of voice that made people listen.
Marina stood in the doorway watching him while Annie cooed in her arms. “You remind me of my daughter,” Gregory said suddenly. Quietly, almost to himself.
“What?” “Nothing. Let’s go.”
They took a cab to The Old Mill. Gregory got out first. Marina stayed in the car with Annie because he’d asked her to. “Wait here. If I’m not back in an hour, call Linda.”
He went in through the main entrance. The doorman didn’t recognize him. Gregory was thinner now, older-looking, altered somehow, but the jacket fit and the doorman let him pass. The dining room was decorated with balloons.
Adam sat at the head of the table, broad-faced, thick through the middle, with a close haircut and gold cuff links. His wife sat beside him, blonde, sharp-featured. Around them were men in suits, women in dresses, and servers weaving through with trays.
Soft jazz was playing. Gregory walked up to the table and stopped in front of his son. The room didn’t notice right away. People were talking, laughing, clinking glasses.
“Good evening, Adam,” Gregory said. Adam looked up, and the glass in his hand stopped halfway to his mouth. The silence didn’t come all at once.
It spread from the nearest table to the farthest like a ripple across water. Someone gasped. Someone dropped a fork. A woman in a red dress covered her mouth.
Adam went pale. Not figuratively. Truly pale, like paper. The glass slipped from his fingers and red wine splashed across the tablecloth.
“Dad?” he said, and the word sounded strange coming out of him, like he barely knew how to use it. “Hello, son,” Gregory said in the same calm voice. “Looks like you’re celebrating well. Nice restaurant. My money, I assume.”
The room went still. Forty people stared at a dead man standing in front of them in a thrift-store jacket, speaking in a level voice. “I want everyone here to understand something,” Gregory continued. “I am alive.”
“The death certificate is fraudulent. The doctor who signed it has already spoken to investigators. The estate transfer is invalid. Every company order signed in my name after October twelfth is void.” He let his eyes move around the room. People stared back.
Some in shock. Some in fascination. Some trying to make sense of what they were hearing. “And now,” Gregory said, turning back to Adam, “we’ll talk. But not here. This is your party.”
Adam opened his mouth and shut it again….
