Chapter 4 - The Penthouse on the Hill
The penthouse on Grandview Avenue was enormous, silent, and cold.
It was decorated in shades of slate gray, brushed chrome, and black Italian leather.
It was the home of a man who used a house only to sleep between sixteen-hour shifts.
There were no family photographs on the walls.
There were no vibrant rugs or messy bookshelves.
There was only the panoramic view of the three rivers of Pittsburgh shimmering under the city lights three hundred feet below.
In the center of the vast living room, June Vance sat perched on the absolute edge of a white sofa.
Her dirty sneakers did not touch the floor.
She had carefully placed a paper napkin from the kitchen under her feet so her worn rubber soles wouldn't mark the marble tiling.
Her small hands were folded neatly in her lap.
Laura, Nathan’s assistant, was kneeling beside her, offering a warm bowl of chicken soup with handmade noodles.
"You can eat it, sweetie," Laura said gently.
"It's really good. Mr. Cole's private chef made it."
June shook her head slightly.
"I shouldn't."
"Why not?"
"Because if I spill it, the rug will be ruined."
"And then you'll have to pay for it, and then you'll get mad at me."
Laura’s eyes welled with tears.
She looked away, wiping her nose with her sleeve.
The heavy front door clicked open.
Nathan walked in.
He had taken off his wet suit jacket, leaving him in a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
His knuckles were red, but his face was remarkably calm.
The rage that had consumed him at the country club had settled into something far more dangerous: an unyielding, protective resolve.
June flinched as he entered, her small body tensing.
Nathan stopped several paces away.
He didn't tower over her.
He immediately sat down on the floor, crossing his legs on the cold marble, bringing himself below her eye level.
"Hey, June," he said softly.
"Hello, Mr. Cole."
Nathan looked at the napkin under her shoes.
"You don't need the napkin."
"My shoes are muddy," she said.
"Then the floor can be washed," Nathan replied.
"Floors are meant to be walked on. People are not meant to worry about floors."
June looked at him skeptically, as if this were a trick rule designed to catch her making a mistake.
A middle-aged woman in a white medical coat stepped out of the guest hallway.
It was Dr. Simmons, Nathan’s personal physician and a trusted family friend for twenty years.
Dr. Simmons held a small clipboard and a sterile plastic vial containing a cheek swab.
"Nathan," the doctor said quietly, nodding toward the hallway.
Nathan rose and walked over to her.
"How is she?"
Dr. Simmons kept her voice down so the child couldn't hear.
"Severely underweight. She's nine, but her bone density matches that of an eight-year-old."
"Signs of mild rickets from early childhood that healed poorly."
"Old scar tissue on her left shoulder—looks like an untreated burn from several years ago, probably an accident in an overcrowded foster home."
Nathan felt his stomach turn violently.
"And the DNA test?" Nathan asked.
"I processed the rapid swab we took at the clinic an hour ago against your genetic profile from your annual executive health screening," Dr. Simmons said.
She handed him a single printed sheet.
Nathan looked at the numbers at the bottom of the page.
Probability of Paternity: 99.98%.
The ink seemed to vibrate before his eyes.
Nathan reached out and touched the glass wall of the corridor to steady himself.
She was his.
Not a relative's child.
Not an orphan he was saving out of guilt for the past.
She was Clara's blood and his blood.
She had spent nine years in the cold while he slept in a four-thousand-square-foot fortress with heated floors and a private elevator.
"Nathan," Dr. Simmons whispered, touching his arm.
"She doesn't know who you are to her."
"If you rush this, you'll terrify her."
"She's been trained by circumstance to expect abandonment."
"Every time someone was nice to her, she was either moved to another home or returned because she was 'too quiet' or 'too damaged.'"
"I understand," Nathan said hoarsely.
He folded the DNA report, slid it into his pocket, and walked back into the living room.
Laura had quietly stepped away into the kitchen.
Nathan sat back down on the floor in front of June.
He noticed her fingers twisting the edge of the red paper card in her pocket.
"Can I show you something, June?" he asked.
She nodded hesitantly.
Nathan reached into his wallet.
From a hidden zippered compartment behind his credit cards, he pulled out a faded, worn photograph.
It was the only picture he had kept.
It showed a twenty-two-year-old Clara Vance sitting on the steps of the Carnegie Library, the wind blowing her brown hair across her face, laughing at the camera while holding a paper cup of coffee.
June’s eyes went wide.
She leaned forward, her tiny hands releasing their grip on her knees.
"Mommy," she whispered.
"You know her," Nathan said gently.
"She had that laugh," June murmured, her finger hovering over the glossy surface, afraid to touch it.
"She had that laugh before she started coughing."
"Where did you get this?"
"I took that picture," Nathan said.
June looked from the photograph to Nathan’s face.
Her gray eyes examined his hairline, the shape of his nose, the square cut of his jaw.
"Were you her friend?"
"I was," Nathan said, his voice thick with emotion.
"I loved her very much."
"Then why didn't you come?"
The question hit him like a physical blow.
There was no anger in her voice.
There was only an innocent, devastating curiosity.
"Why didn't you come to the hospital?" June asked.
"Mommy told me you were going to come."
"Every night before they turned the big lights off, she looked at the door."
"She said, 'Nathan is just stuck in traffic, June.'"
"'He's coming with the big truck.'"
"'He's going to take us to the house with the porch.'"
"And then one day she went to sleep and they put a sheet over her head."
"And I waited on the plastic chair in the lobby for three days until the police lady came."
"Why were you in traffic for so long?"
Nathan couldn't stop the tear that fell down his cheek.
He didn't wipe it away.
He let his daughter see him cry.
"Because bad men told me lies," Nathan said, his voice shaking with absolute honesty.
"Bad men told me she was already gone."
"And I was stupid, June."
"I was cowardly and stupid, and I believed them instead of looking for her myself."
"I am so sorry."
"I am so, so sorry."
June watched the tear fall onto his shirt.
Children in foster care knew many kinds of adults.
They knew angry adults.
They knew tired adults.
They knew adults who pretended to care for a monthly check.
They rarely saw a man in a thousand-dollar suit weeping on the floor because he was sorry he was late.
Slowly, tentatively, June reached into her pocket.
She pulled out the folded construction-paper heart.
She unfolded it with small, deliberate movements.
She looked at the six coupons.
Then, with careful fingers, she tore out the small square in the top left corner.
ONE FREE HUG.
She held it out to him with a trembling hand.
"You don't have to pay for it," she whispered.
Nathan didn't hesitate.
He reached forward, wrapped his arms around the fragile, shaking girl, and pulled her against his chest.
She was stiff for three seconds.
Then, like a dam breaking after years of holding back a flood, her tiny fingers gripped the fabric of his shirt.
May you like
She buried her face into the crook of his neck.
And for the first time in six years, June Vance stopped trying to be brave, and began to sob.
