Page 41 of Billionaire's Secret Baby

“I guess so. All the information’s correct, anyway.”

“That’s the birth certificate with which you applied for the liquor licenses on your premises, isn’t it?”

“It has to be. I mean, I’ve only got one.”

“Do you?” said O’Rourke, and for a reason I couldn’t explain, my blood ran cold.

“Of course,” I said. “Doesn’t everyone?”

This seemed to be what O’Rourke was waiting to hear. His dark, gray, heavy-lidded eyes seemed to be gleaming in the interrogation room. I looked up behind him, and frantically began to imagine a team of cops all standing behind the one-way glass.

“About four days ago,” he began, “Luca Desilva came in here to report a felony. Are you aware of him?”

“Of course,” I said. “He was my business partner. Still is, technically. And he’s a crook. I caught him stealing money out of my cash register two weeks ago. Sacked him on the spot.”

“I’m well aware of what you have accused Mr. Desilva of doing—”

“I have security tapes!” I said. “I can prove it.”

“But you didn’t report it to the police.”

“He’s my partner. He holds a stake in the restaurant.”

“I guess I can see that fly,” said O’Rourke.

“What did Luca say?”

“It’s not what he said,” O’Rourke calmly replied. “It’s what he showed me.”

He pulled another sheet of paper from inside the wallet and put it down on the table.

“See that, Alex?” said O’Rourke.

I looked closer.

It was identical in every respect to the first document.

Except for one thing.

On the first certificate, under the name of Father, Max Lowe had been written. At the bottom, the document had been signed with his signature, a swooping, shaky curve that spelled out “M. Lowe.” Something about that signature made me angry. I felt the weight of years of anger pressing down on my shoulders. It was like the shaky, loopy, lopsided signature summed up everything about my dad’s weakness. His betrayal of me and my mother.

I turned to the second one.

This time, under Father, the words UNKNOWN were written in block capitals.

Instead, the certificate had been signed by my mother.

“That’s not right,” I said.

“Yeah,” said O’Rourke. “That’s what I said. So, Alex. Which of these is the correct one? This one?—” he said, holding up the real birth certificate, “which you applied for the liquor licenses with? Or this one?” he said, holding up the forgery. The one which stated that I had no father. That my real name was Alex Leach.

“Where did you get that!” I said. “That’s not my mother’s signature.”

“I wondered if you’d say that,” said O’Rourke. “But I ran a match on it using one of our computers. And unless the forgery was skillful—highly skillful, I’d say—thisisyour mother’s signature.”

“But…I don’t…I don’t get it,” I said. “I don’t understand. What are you saying? That I don’t have a father?”

“I’m saying,” said O’Rourke, “that unless you can prove you do, I am required by city law to arrest you and close your businesses within the next 90 days.”

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