“Sign the medical power of attorney over to me today, or I go to the press,” Madison’s voice hissed. “I don’t care about your name, old man. I care about the money.”
Madison sank into her chair as people moved away from her in disgust.
Ethan rushed onto the stage, crying.
“Dad, please. I didn’t know about the poison. I swear.”
“I know you didn’t,” I said. “But I also know what you did when I was lying on the rug. You found my phone ringing with a call from my attorney, and you turned it off.”
He froze.
“I panicked,” he whispered. “I’m your son.”
“That brings us to the final slide.”
The screen changed.
DNA RESULTS.
Charles Whitman and Ethan Whitman.
Probability of paternity: 0%.
The ballroom went silent.
Ethan turned toward Margaret.
“But if I’m not his…”
“Read the next line,” I said.
Ethan Whitman and Pastor Daniel Brooks.
Probability of paternity: 99.9%.
Every head turned toward Daniel.
The pastor gripped the back of a chair, his face gray.
