With a tug Ben opened the vault. I saw his eyes widen.
“Oh, my, God …” he said.
“What is it?”
He reached inside. “This can’t be …”
As he withdrew his hands I recognized the contents. Not cash, not stock certificates, not precious metals.
He pressed his face into the open cylinder.
“That’s it?” he said.
I smiled.
“I’ll be a son of a bitch,” he said. “So much for you paying me back, big brother.”
The contents fell from his hands and landed with a thud onto the table. It was a notebook wrapped in plastic and secured with a rubber band.
Our father had been a career Foreign Service officer who at one point was considered as a candidate for Secretary of State, but he was also a dreamer. He encouraged me to start e-Antiquity and was our original venture capitalist, so when I realized e-Antiquity’s financial fantasy ride was about to hit the wall—
“Is this what you sent him as you hurtled toward insolvency? All your secret maps?” He paused. “The evidence the Feds need to prove the insider trading?”
“For which you’re the sole benefactor, thank you very much.”
The notebook contained the originals of all the maps and research information that could lead to many lost treasures.
“I was going to let you have all of what was in here anyway, less what you owe me, but I don’t want anything to do with …”
“History?”
“Ha! Treasure maps, unauthenticated ones at that? Old letters and miscellaneous ramblings of ne’er-do-wells?” His mouth hardened. “This is what got Mom and Dad killed, you know.”
I couldn’t meet his eyes.
“Treasure hunting,” he said, “the original lottery, but with worse odds.”
I peeled back the rubber bands and the notebook sprang open. Each of the archival plastic sleeves contained documents with unique stories, historic relevance, my team’s sweat from scouring the globe for them. Not to mention the dregs of our investors’ capital. All of it squirreled away to prevent them being sold at the bankruptcy auction with the rest of e-Antiquity’s assets—what’s this?
A lone envelope stuck out from the middle of the plastic sheaths. Ben saw it at the same time and plucked it out.
Written on the front: “Charles B. Reilly, III.”
Ben tore it open.
“Hey, I’m the one—”
“It’s a letter from Dad,” Ben said.
“Can I—”
“Son—”
“Okay, Ben, fine. You read it.”
Son,
If you’re seeing this for the first time, it’s because we never had the chance to discuss it. It never mattered to us, and it shouldn’t to you.
Your mother was told early in our marriage that she couldn’t have children, so we set out on this course. Your brother was a surprise, a few years later. You have always been our son, even if you weren’t born a Reilly. We love you no different than had you been, so don’t let this change a thing.
These papers are all we have from the adoption. The laws were very specific back when you were born, and the birth mother’s anonymity was always protected. We will not be hurt in the least if you choose to pursue your past, and given that you’re now over thirty, we encourage you to do so for medical history purposes, at least.
We are your parents, and you are our son. That will never change.
We love you.
Mom and Dad.
Silence.
I was adopted?
He dropped the letter on the table and I picked it up. It was Dad’s handwriting, for sure. Adopted? Really?
“Wow.” Ben shook his head. “Must be a shock to the system, huh?”
“You could say that.”
“It does explain a lot.”
What? I couldn’t believe I was adopted and only finding out now.
“Good luck with all your maps, Buck. See you around.”
I heard a buzzer, the door opened, then Ben was gone. I slumped into a chair. I felt as if I’d been punched in the stomach, kicked in the nuts, hit over the head with a 2x4.
I was adopted?
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