Tommy, I heard from Marilyn. She came to see me. She’s pregnant. I don’t know what kind of father I can be from in here, but if that baby comes into this world carrying my last name, he deserves better than what I gave him — Steve.
I looked back at the first letters from Marilyn. The pieces started to shift.
Thomas wasn’t hiding a son. He was secretly helping a nephew… why? What had his brother done?
A loud bang snapped me out of my thoughts.
What had his brother done?
The locksmith had forced the strongbox open.
Inside were old newspaper clippings, a worn leather catcher’s mitt, and a few scuffed baseballs.
“Oh, wow!” the locksmith said. “I know this guy!”
I leaned in, my knees pressing into the hardwood.
He held up an old newspaper clipping with a photo of a young man in a crisp white uniform standing in the batter’s box, eyes fixed on the pitcher. The bleachers behind him were packed.
The locksmith had forced the strongbox open.
“My dad talked about him all the time,” the locksmith said. “He said this guy had the best arm in the county. People used to fill the bleachers to see him pitch. Then he got into a bad wreck. The other driver died, and he went to prison. People stopped talking to the family overnight.”
I took the clipping from his hand.
There was another photo of the same young man in a baseball jersey, smiling with his arm around a young boy. Two older adults stood behind them, looking proud.
The little boy in the photo was Thomas.
“My dad talked about him all the time.”
I reached into the box and pulled out a folded legal document. It was a name change form. Thomas’s original last name was there, typed in black and white.
Everything clicked into place.
