But I taught you everything I know. And everything I know came from people who survived things that should have killed them. You come from a long line of survivors. Amara, don't forget that. All my love, Grandma Loretta, PS.
His office is at 1515 Broadway, 47th floor. Don't call ahead, just show up. He'll see you. At the bottom of the page, in smaller handwriting, was a phone number. Amara read the letter three times, then a fourth.
Her grandmother's words blurred as tears filled her eyes, but she blinked them back. Not here. Not now. Daniel Carter, CEO of the network. The man who green lit Voices of America.
The man who her grandmother had saved years ago when he was drowning. She folded the letter carefully and was about to put it back in her bag when she heard footsteps approaching. She looked up. A man stood about 3 feet away. Late 50s, maybe early 60s, salt and pepper hair cut neat and professional.
Gold rimmed glasses, dark vest over a crisp white shirt, no tie. Expensive watch but not flashy. Everything about him said authority, but quiet authority. The kind that didn't need to announce itself. He was looking directly at her, not through her, not past her, at her.
"Excuse me," he said. His voice was low and careful. "What's your full name?" Amara's throat went dry. She glanced at the letter in her hands.
Had he seen it? Did he know? "Amara Johnson," she said. "Full name?" he repeated. There was something intent in his expression now, something sharp and focused. She hesitated.
Why did he want to know? Who was he? But then she looked at his face more closely, at the way he stood, at the way everyone in the room had suddenly gone quiet watching, and she knew. "Amara Loretta Johnson," she said, pronouncing the middle name clearly. The man went completely still. His hand, which had been resting casually in his pocket, came out slowly.
He took off his gold rimmed glasses, cleaned them on his shirt, a nervous gesture buying time, and put them back on. "Loretta," he said, and his voice cracked on the word. Amara's heart hammered. "Do you know that name?" He didn't answer immediately. His eyes had moved to the letter in her hands, taking in the yellowed paper, the familiar handwriting.
"Was your grandmother Loretta Hayes?" he asked quietly. The room tilted. Sounds became distant. Amara felt like she was underwater. "Yes, Daniel Carter, because that's who this was.