Chapter 1 - THE CATERPILLAR MAN
The party was supposed to honor my wife.
Then our five-year-old son pointed at her boss and said, “The caterpillar man is the father.”
The room laughed for exactly three seconds.
I didn’t.
Liam sat on the edge of our living-room rug in a bent paper crown, blue frosting smeared across one cheek.
He was staring at Grant Whitmore.
Grant had just arrived at our house in Roseville, California, carrying a bottle of champagne in a gold gift sleeve.
Forty-six.
Tall.
Expensive navy jacket.
Senior vice president of operations at Pacific Crest Medical Supply.
Emily’s supervisor.
The man she credited with the promotion we were celebrating.
Grant’s glass stopped halfway to his mouth.
Emily went completely still.
I crouched beside Liam.
“What did you say, buddy?”
“The caterpillar man.”
He pointed again.
“Grant?”
Liam nodded.
“He gives me the green ones.”
“What green ones?”
“Caterpillars.”
Grant recovered first.
“Gummy worms.”
His laugh sounded almost convincing.
“We had them at the company picnic.”
Emily immediately nodded.
“That’s what he means. Remember the summer picnic?”
Liam frowned.
“No.”
I looked at him.
“When did Grant give you gummy worms?”
“Here.”
The conversations around us faded.
Someone lowered the music.
Emily’s sister stopped pouring wine.
Grant looked toward the front door.
I stayed focused on Liam.
“Here at our house?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
He shrugged.
“Nighttime.”
Emily moved closer.
“Liam, sweetheart, you’re mixing things up.”
“No.”
His little face tightened.
“He comes when Daddy sleeps.”
Nobody laughed now.
I looked at Emily.
Her face had lost color.
“Emily?”
She reached for Liam.
I shifted slightly between them without really intending to.
Not aggressive.
Instinct.
“Let him finish.”
“Michael, he’s five.”
“I know.”
Grant set his champagne down.
“I think I should go.”
I turned.
“No.”
The word came out quieter than I expected.
Grant stopped.
I looked back at Liam.
“What happens when Grant comes here?”
Liam brightened because I was finally asking about something he apparently understood.
“He gives me caterpillars.”
“Anything else?”
“Mommy says stay in my room.”
Emily whispered, “Michael.”
I ignored her.
“Was I home?”
“Yes.”
“Where was I?”
“Sleeping.”
The room felt too warm.
Emily’s mother, Judith, stood near the dining table with both hands pressed against her purse.
My neighbor Tom suddenly found the window fascinating.
I asked:
“How many times did Grant come?”
Liam held up both hands.
Then apparently realized ten was not enough.
“A lot.”
Grant spoke.
“Michael, I can explain—”
“Please don’t speak to my son.”
His mouth closed.
I turned back to Liam.
“Did Grant tell you he was your father?”
Liam nodded.
My lungs stopped working correctly.
Emily made a sound behind me.
Not a word.
Just breath.
“What exactly did he say?”
Liam thought hard.
“He said maybe.”
“Maybe what?”
“Maybe he’s my other dad.”
My vision narrowed.
I looked at Grant.
Then Emily.
The eight hard years of our marriage rearranged themselves in one second.
The rough year after Liam was born.
Emily’s withdrawal.
Our arguments.
The months we slept back-to-back without touching.
Her recent promotion.
Grant’s late calls.
His name appearing more often.
Her sudden nervousness whenever I picked up her phone by mistake.
I had found innocent explanations for every single thing.
That did not make the explanations true.
Emily finally said:
“Michael, we need to talk privately.”
I laughed once.
“Now?”
“Please.”
I stood.
“Everyone should leave.”
My brother-in-law whispered, “Mike—”
“Please.”
No one argued.
Coats appeared.
Glasses were abandoned half full.
The cupcakes Emily had spent thirty dollars apiece ordering from a bakery in Midtown Sacramento remained untouched.
Grant moved toward the front door.
I said:
“Not yet.”
He stopped.
Emily stepped between us.
“Michael.”
“I’m not going to hit him.”
Grant’s expression changed slightly.
Maybe disappointment would have been useful to him.
I continued.
“I want one answer before you go.”
He looked at Emily.
Not me.
That was answer enough to hurt.
“When were you last inside my house?”
Grant swallowed.
“Two weeks ago.”
Emily closed her eyes.
My stomach dropped.
“While I was here?”
“Yes.”
“Asleep?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Grant looked toward Liam.
I lowered my voice.
“Wrong direction.”
His eyes came back to me.
“It was about Emily’s work.”
I laughed.
“At midnight?”
“It was complicated.”
“Was it sexual?”
Emily immediately said, “No.”
Grant said nothing.
I turned toward her.
“No recently,” she added.
Recently.
That word landed like broken glass.
“Recently?”
Judith whispered, “Emily.”
My wife looked at her mother.
“Mom, go home.”
Judith’s face crumpled.
She left.
Grant remained.
I asked:
“How long ago?”
Emily’s eyes filled.
“Michael.”
“How long ago were you sleeping with him?”
Grant stared at the floor.
Emily whispered:
“Six years.”
Liam was five.
I looked toward my son.
He was standing by the couch now.
Paper crown crooked.
Confused.
That brought me back into my body.
I walked to him.
“Buddy, you didn’t do anything wrong.”
His eyes filled.
“Did we lose the party?”
“No.”
“Is Mommy in trouble?”
I looked at Emily.
She was crying.
“This is grown-up stuff.”
“Is Grant my dad?”
I could not answer.
That nearly killed me.
I knelt.
“I am your dad.”
“But is he too?”
“I don’t know what Grant told you.”
Liam’s chin trembled.
“He showed Mommy the paper.”
Every adult in the room froze.
“What paper?” I asked.
“The paper that said he was.”
Emily covered her mouth.
I stood.
“Where is it?”
She did not answer.
“Emily.”
“Upstairs.”
My pulse pounded.
She walked toward our bedroom.
I followed.
Grant stayed downstairs.
In the bottom drawer of Emily’s nightstand was a white envelope.
Inside:
A laboratory report.
EverGene Diagnostics.
Alleged DNA relationship test.
Child:
Liam Hayes.
Tested adult:
Grant Whitmore.
Probability of paternity:
99.8%.
I stared until the numbers blurred.
“When did you get this?”
“August.”
“Three months ago.”
“Yes.”
“You believed it?”
“I didn’t know what to believe.”
“Did you test Liam?”
“No.”
I looked at her.
“Then where did his DNA come from?”
She shook her head.
“Grant said he handled it.”
My stomach turned.
“Handled it how?”
“I don’t know.”
“And instead of asking me, a doctor, a lawyer, literally anyone—you let him into our house at night?”
Tears ran down her face.
“I was scared.”
“Of what?”
“He said if I didn’t cooperate, he would tell you.”
“About the affair?”
“And Liam.”
I held up the report.
“You thought my son might be his.”
“Yes.”
The word almost knocked me backward.
Then I noticed the date at the bottom.
August 14.
The exact week Emily had received her promotion.
I looked at her.
“What did he ask you to cooperate with?”
She stopped crying.
That frightened me more.
“Emily.”
Her eyes shifted toward the stairs.
Toward Grant.
Then back to me.
“He needed me to sign something at work.”
My fingers tightened around the report.
“What?”
“A vendor certification.”
“Why would paternity have anything to do with a vendor?”
Her voice dropped.
“Because I had refused to sign it before.”
From downstairs, the front door opened.
I ran out.
Grant was gone.
On the entry table, beside his untouched champagne, he had left one thing behind.
A folded business card.
On the back, handwritten:
Ask Emily what Caldera is.
My wife had a secret from six years ago.
Grant had a secret from three months ago.
And suddenly I wasn’t sure which one had brought him into my house.
May you like
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