I grabbed another letter from the pile.
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.
The pieces started to shift.
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.
“I know this guy!”
“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.
“My dad talked about him all the time.”
