trust worth more than everything his parents owned combined.
And the Boston townhouse he proudly called “our home”?
My trust had purchased it.
His name was never on the deed.
At 11:40 that night, the train stopped in Cleveland.
Daniel was asleep.
Vanessa was watching a movie.
I picked up my suitcase.
I stepped onto the platform.
Then I called the one man Daniel had spent four years desperately trying to impress.
My father.
“Dad?”
He answered instantly.
“Claire? What’s wrong?”
I looked back at the train.
Through the
