Enough was enough. Eileen cut the engine and got out of the van. Avoiding the deeper rain puddles, she crossed the parking lot, opened the door to the office, and stepped inside.
The place was nice in an outdated, seventies kind of way, with wood-paneled walls and shiny gold fixtures. A receptionist sat at the front desk, typing on a keyboard. Three heavy lines cut across her forehead—permanent ridges, it seemed.
Eileen cleared her throat.
“Appointment time?” the receptionist asked, keeping her eyes on the screen.
“Uh. I didn’t make one. Was I supposed to?”
Eileen knew she was supposed to. She’d read the letter five hundred times.
The receptionist stopped typing. Her face reminded Eileen of her fourth-grade teacher, Ms. Larson. And since this was Emmet, there was a big chance the two of them were related.
“We don’t take walk-ins anymore,” said Ms. Larson’s probably-sister. “You’ll have to make an appointment with either Mr. Crowley or Mr. Knutsen.”
“Yeah, Mr. Knutsen sent me this.”
Eileen held out the letter. The lines on the receptionist’s forehead bulged.
“That may be,” she said after a pause, “but you still have to make an appointment. It’ll have to be after the holiday sea—”
“Send her on in, Tonya.”
Eileen glanced up. There were three doors leading off the reception area. One of those doors was open. The one marked WILLIAM J. KNUTSEN, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW.
“Bill,” Tonya called back, “I don’t think—”
“I said, send her in.”
Tonya looked helpless and pissed. She glared at Eileen, who was considering that maybe she should’ve washed and/or styled her hair for this occasion. Maybe not worn the usual leather jacket, combat boots, and heavy eyeliner. Too late for that, though. Tonya was motioning for Eileen to do as the voice of Bill commanded. Eileen stepped into his room.
William J. Knutsen, like his law office, was not what Eileen had expected. For one thing, he had a head of hair; she’d been picturing him as bald. For another, that hair was white; she’d pictured a young, upstart grifter. The guy before her was more of a Santa Claus. His chin was sagging and his stature straight—a striking combo. One that, once upon a time, Eileen would’ve loved to have painted.
From a leather chair behind his desk, he said, “Please have a seat, Ms. Sullivan.”
Mr. Knutsen spoke the way Eileen thought Santa might: jolly. Down-to-earth. She eyed the chair opposite him and said, “I’m cool where I am, thanks.”
Mr. Knutsen didn’t put up a fight. He tented his fingers in front of his whisker-bordered lips.
Eileen frowned at him. “How do you know who I am?”
“Well, my usual clientele is over the age of thirty.”
“Deduction.” Eileen tapped her temple. “You’re one clever bastard, Billy.”
Mr. Knutsen appeared unruffled. If Eileen had addressed any of her teachers that way, they would’ve given her detention. In fact, Eileen had addressed them that way, and she had gotten detention. But she wasn’t sure exactly why she was mouthing off now. Was it nerves? Possibly. Maybe she was more anxious about this than she’d planned to be, and maybe the only way to cope was to be an asshole.
She dropped the letter on the table. “So, what is this? I have an uncle?”
At last she got a reaction out of the guy: Mr. Knutsen’s eyelids fluttered, and he sat straighter in his chair. He said, “I’m sorry, I thought you knew.”
“My mom was a foster kid. Doesn’t have family. And my dad was an only child.”
She was telling him what she’d thought had been true—what she’d believed until yesterday. Inside, she was begging Mr. Knutsen to prove her wrong. She needed this change.
Change. Her heart thumped with the word: Ch-change, ch-change.
Mr. Knutsen fluttered his eyelids again. “Your father wasn’t an only child, according to my records. Or, I should say, Patrick Enright’s.”
Eileen said, “There’s no one in my family named Enright.”
At that Mr. Knutsen rose from his chair, and for a moment, Eileen feared he might fling her from the room, shouting, “YOU’RE RIGHT, I’VE MADE A HUGE MISTAKE!”
Instead, he crossed the office to a tall filing cabinet and, using a key, opened the topmost drawer. He riffled through the folders and removed one, thick with papers, setting it on the table before Eileen.
“Have you considered, Ms. Sullivan, that your parents changed their name?”
Eileen made no move to touch the folder. “Yeah, when my mom got married. She was a Clark, though. Not an Enright.”
“I’m not talking about maiden names. It was your father who made the change.”
“You know that’s the weirdest term? ‘Maiden name.’ Like, okay,