Gradually, Raymond improved.

First he could rotate his wrist.

Then lift his forearm.

Four days later, he could hold his head up for several seconds.

“There is a cell phone hidden in the bottom drawer of my desk,” he told me early one morning before the sun came up. “Nobody in this house knows it exists.”

Behind old files, I found the device.

Raymond dictated a phone number.

“He is my personal attorney,” Raymond explained carefully. “He works for me, not for Christopher. He is one of the few people I still trust.”

We sent a short message, then erased everything.

During the day, Raymond maintained his act. Whenever Christopher entered, he let his jaw hang slightly and stared blankly at the ceiling.

“I never imagined that acting like a helpless corpse would become such a useful skill,” Raymond whispered with a quiet smirk after one visit.

I covered my mouth to keep from laughing.

Two days later, however, the humor disappeared.

I returned from buying diapers and immediately noticed someone had searched my room.

My travel bag had been closed differently.

Baby-food jars had moved.

In the trash, I found two used sterile mouth-swab wrappers.

I hurried upstairs.

“I think Christopher took DNA samples from Theodore and perhaps from me while I was away,” I whispered in panic.

Raymond’s expression darkened.

“DNA testing,” he muttered under his breath.

“Why would he do that?” I asked.

“He wants to find something to accuse you of, or perhaps prove that you came here with some kind of premeditated scheme to manipulate me.”

His eyes shifted toward Theodore sleeping on the bed.

Then he asked something unexpected.

“You have never talked about the child’s father,” he observed gently.

Painful memories tightened my chest.

“His name is Brandon,” I answered quietly. “He grew up moving between state foster homes, and we met when we were both working at a diner downtown. He walked out on us when Theodore was only three months old.”

“How old is he?” Raymond pressed further.

“He is twenty-nine years old,” I replied.

Raymond stared at the ceiling.

“What is going on in your mind?” I inquired.

“It is nothing,” he claimed, though his tone suggested otherwise.

It clearly wasn’t nothing.

Two days later, Christopher received a courier envelope in Raymond’s study.

I was passing with tea when I heard him shout.

“This simply cannot be real!”

Papers rustled violently.

“Repeat that to me again,” Christopher demanded into his phone. “That laboratory test must be completely wrong!”

The door flew open.

He stormed past me and rushed to his truck.

That night, he returned with Dr. Wallace.

They locked themselves in the private office for almost two hours.

When they left, I told Raymond.

He listened, then asked to hold Theodore.

I settled the baby on his left arm.

“Nora, I had a son a long time ago,” Raymond revealed softly.

I stared at him.

“He was seventeen years old, and his mother was almost my age,” Raymond continued. “Her wealthy family sent her away out of town to hide the pregnancy, and I was told later that the baby boy ended up in an institutional facility. I spent years searching for him, but eventually I stopped looking.”

He swallowed hard.

“I hid behind my expanding work, and then I hid behind my money,” he confessed with deep regret.

He looked down at Theodore.

“If Christopher ran my DNA against the child’s sample to prove that you and I were complete strangers…”

He didn’t finish.

I did.

“Brandon could be your long-lost son,” I whispered, breathless.

Raymond closed his eyes.

Theodore wrapped his tiny fist around one of Raymond’s fingers.

“And this little boy could be my biological grandson,” Raymond added softly.

The implication hit me immediately.

Until then, Christopher had one obvious reason to want Raymond dead: the inheritance.

Now he’d discovered a legitimate son and grandson who could destroy those plans.

“Christopher is not going to stop now,” I warned nervously.

“No, he will not,” Raymond agreed firmly.

He extended his hand.

“Hand me the hidden phone right now.”

“Who are you planning to call?” I asked.

For the first time since meeting him, Raymond smiled with genuine authority.

“I am calling the people Christopher believed would never arrive in time to stop him.”

When he told me who would enter the estate the next morning, I understood that the real battle was just beginning.

PART 3

At exactly 10:50 the next morning, three heavy vehicles stopped outside the gate.

Christopher wasn’t home.

He had left early, still convinced his uncle was completely paralyzed upstairs.

I opened the gate.

An elderly man carrying a thick leather folder entered, followed by a younger legal associate, two private investigators, and two uniformed law-enforcement officers who identified themselves before entering.