But when I opened it, I immediately recognized the handwriting.
Eleanor’s.
Inside was a photograph.
An old photograph.
A young woman stood beside a man outside St. Catherine’s Medical Center.
I turned it over.
There was a handwritten note.
My hands went cold as I read it.
“Bianca,
I wanted to tell you this before I left, but I didn’t know how.
Your father saved my life twenty-five years ago.
He was one of the kindest people I ever met.
And there is something else you need to know.
The man standing beside me in this photograph is not just a stranger.
He is the reason Tristan became who he is today.
Please ask him about the Bellamy Foundation.
He owes you the truth.”
I stared at the photograph.
My father’s face.
A younger Eleanor.
And beside them…
A man I recognized.
A man whose name appeared in every newspaper.
