Back at our house, Roland returned with Beverly and Faye behind him.
He found my note.
Beverly read it over his shoulder.
“Well,” she said. “That’s dramatic.”
Roland ignored her.
He opened his contacts and found a number I had given him years earlier for emergencies.
Simone’s Father.
He called.
A man answered.
“Caldwell residence.”
Roland froze.
“Caldwell?”
“Yes, sir. This is Gregory.”
“I’m looking for Simone Tran.”
“Miss Caldwell and her daughter are resting. Mr. Caldwell has asked that they not be disturbed tonight.”
Derek, Faye’s husband, searched the name online.
Then he held up his phone.
“Roland… Malcolm Caldwell? Caldwell Freight?”
A photograph showed my father standing outside the downtown headquarters.
“That’s her father?”
Beverly slowly sat down.
That night, at 3:15 a.m., Wren woke hungry.
I was feeding her in the nursery when I heard careful footsteps outside.
They stopped at the door.
“Simone?”
My father.
“Is everything okay? I heard her.”
I looked up.
He stood there in a navy robe.
Seventy-one now.
Thinner.
White hair.
Older than I remembered.
And uncertain.
My father had faced boardrooms full of powerful executives without hesitation.
But he looked afraid to enter his daughter’s nursery.
