Michael shook his head. No. He thought he might faint. He couldn’t move, couldn’t focus on anything but the carpet below his feet, the hum of voices and music.

“You don’t think we’d ask you to do this for nothing, do you? There’s something in it for you. Quite a significant something.” He pulled out his wallet and unfolded a check written out to Michael, and pressed it into his hand. Fifty thousand dollars.

“Is this real?”

Anthony laughed. “Yes, it’s real. I recognize this sacrifice comes at no small cost to you. I need to make it worth your while.”

Michael had to look twice at the number, and read it spelled out in fancy script: Fifty thousand and 00/100 dollars. More money than he’d ever seen in one place. Anthony pulled another check out of his wallet. “And here’s another check just like that one. You can go ahead, keep both of them. But if you do, Ann gets nothing. Or, if you love your sister, you pocket one, sign over the other, say you’re the dad, and then you disappear.”

“You’re bribing me.”

“Oh, I don’t think of it that way. I’m simply making an unpleasant situation less unpleasant for all of us.”

Michael fingered the edges of the checks, tempted to rip them in half. It was just paper, after all, yet in that moment, the checks felt like they were made of steel.

“I’m willing to pay to prevent this from destroying my life. Ann understands this, she does. I have the best lawyers, and I know the kinds of people who could screw Ann over, leave her with nothing. Screw both of you over. I don’t want to do that, I really don’t. You’re nice kids. But I’ll do whatever it takes to protect myself and my family. Just sign the paperwork and the check and let’s get this over with.”

Anthony led the way back to the table, and Michael grudgingly followed. Then Anthony slid some papers out of his leather attaché case. He seemed like the kind of guy who was always whipping out paperwork—making deals, talking people into doing things they shouldn’t do, not giving them much choice in the matter while making them feel like all the choices were theirs. He set the papers on the table and pushed them toward Michael. “I need your signature here”—he tapped a line next to an X on the top piece of paper— “and here.” He flipped the paper over. “And this is where you write down your social security number for the trust.” He pressed a pen into Michael’s hand. Not just any pen, but the fancy kind you get for graduation. Like a surgeon picking the proper tool for an operation. This pen felt heavy and involved, perfect for the task at hand.