I should have known something was wrong when I saw my father in the mirror.
Not my father—Richard Cross. The man whose DNA I probably share but whose name I didn't carry until I was twenty-two and stood in a lawyer's office in Midtown Manhattan and learned that my mother had been Richard Cross's mistress for three years before she died of a fever that the doctor called pneumonia and my father calls what she deserves. I was twenty-eight. I had been working at Cross...
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