Free Truth Be Told by Victoria Christopher Murray

to order before we talk?” He hoped his voice didn’t shake the way he trembled inside.
    She shook her head. “I’ve come a long way. There were many times when I almost turned back, but you have to know.”
    I don’t want to know, he screamed inside. His heart pounded harder. He wanted to ask how she liked New York.
    â€œConner, I have a son.”
    He squinted, focusing on her lips. Okay, he wanted to say. Congratulations, sustantivo, felicitations; in any language, it added up to, “What does this have to do with me?”
    â€œYour son.”
    Her words hit him like a boxer’s uppercut. He shook his head, feeling the need to regain his balance even though he was sitting. Then he looked at her, his eyes speaking for him.
    â€œAre you ready to order?”
    His head weighed one hundred pounds as he struggled to raise his glance to the waitress. Why are you interrupting us? he wanted to ask. Do you know what this woman just said to me? He shook his head. “No, we don’t want to order. We’re not hungry.”
    The waitress raised her eyebrows. “So you’re going to sit here, at the busiest time of the day, at my station, and not order anything?” Her neck swayed with each syllable.
    Pilar said, “I’ll have the barbecue chicken salad.” She handed her menu to the waitress and smiled at Conner.
    He glared at her. How could she eat after sputtering such lies? His eyes bore into Pilar. “I’ll have the soup,” he said not breaking his gaze.
    The waitress looked around as if she wanted someone else to hear this madness. “What kind of soup?”
    His eyes were still on Pilar. “It doesn’t matter.”
    The waitress shrugged her shoulders, then walked away. Conner and Pilar stared at each other, a battle of wills. It was Pilar who looked away first.
    â€œWhat did you say?” His question sprang through clenched teeth.
    A thin layer of water covered Pilar’s eyes. “We have a son, Conner.”
    He leaned forward. “How can that be?” he whispered.
    Her eyes widened. “Conner, we were together for a few months.”
    â€œWe were not together.”
    â€œFive, six, seven times …”
    â€œWe were not together.”
    Pilar grimaced from the pain of his words. “I know you never considered it a relationship….”
    â€œI was married.” Conner paused. “I am married.”
    â€œThat’s why I left.” Her words were soft and sad.
    â€œYou knew this when you left?”
    She shook her head. “I found out a few weeks later.”
    He covered his face with his hands. When he looked up, he wondered why Pilar wasn’t smiling—telling him this was a joke or a mistake. It didn’t matter which to him.
    â€œConner, I’m sorry.”
    He glared at her, understanding at last the purpose of this meeting. It was a shakedown, a demand for money. She knew how well they were doing. “How do you know the child is mine?” He spat the words across the table as if she were a hostile witness.
    Her entire body shook. With her eyes still on him, she lifted her purse from the floor and took out her wallet. Her eyes were glassier than they had been just a minute before as she slid a picture across the table.
    Conner folded his hands inches away from the photo and stared at the caramel-colored boy sitting on a stool with his elbow resting on his leg. He swallowed the lump that threatened to block air from reaching his lungs. The boy had the same bushy eyebrows, high cheeks, and cleft in his chin. He carried his DNA.
    He looked up at Pilar, then returned his glance to the picture. Pilar’s sole contribution had been the black of his eyes.
    His fingers edged toward the photo, but he allowed just the tips to touch it. “What’s his name?” He almost choked on his question.
    â€œSolomon.” Her voice was low.
    The waitress put a plate in front of