Grace climbed out of her Mercedes and straightened her clothes. She was wearing a tight-fitting pencil skirt, the type that made Nathan’s eyes glaze over. Her long hair fell in waves over her shoulders. She walked into The Blue Rooms, her high heels clicking on the tiled floor. It was midday and there was no one else around. Nathan was expecting her. She’d phoned him earlier to tell him she wanted to see him.

She walked into his office making him look up from what he was doing.

‘Grace,’ he leered at her. ‘I’m so glad you phoned me. I knew you couldn’t resist me really.’

‘Here. I have something I need to show you,’ she told him as she handed him a small bundle of photographs. He snatched them from her hand and stared intently at the one on the top of the pile.

‘Is this Jake?’ he frowned. He knew it wasn’t. It looked a lot like Jake, but anyone who knew him as well as Nathan and Grace did, could tell it wasn’t him.

‘No. Not Jake. Take a look at the back.’

Nathan turned the photograph over in his hand and read the carefully written handwriting. Nathan. 18 months. His skin paled, as though all the blood had drained from his face in an instant. His features distorted in anger and confusion.

‘What the fuck is this? Where did you get these?’ he shouted as he thumbed through the remaining pictures.

‘There are letters too,’ she told him, holding up the yellowed envelopes.

His head snapped up. ‘What? Where did you get this stuff, Grace?’ The tremor in his voice clearly audible.

‘From a mutual acquaintance of ours,’ she said trying her hardest not to smile as he became increasingly bewildered. The beads of perspiration started to trickle down his forehead. His hands trembled as he reached for the letters. She handed them to him, ensuring that she held the envelope the right side up, so he had a clear view of the addressee: Tommy McNulty.

‘Tommy?’ he stammered. ‘But why?’

‘He was your dad, Nathan.’ She enjoyed delivering that piece of information.

Nathan sank further into his chair as though someone had just hit him full force in the stomach with a cricket bat. Running his hands though his hair, he started to take deep, gulping breaths.

‘But this doesn’t make any sense,’ he looked at her wild-eyed. His hair, usually so well groomed, was damp with sweat, sticking up at odd angles from his head. ‘Why didn’t he tell me?’