This didn't make any sense. He had to prove he was whom he claimed he was. Asher placed the documents on the table without ceremony. I reached out, grabbed them and started going through them. It contained DNA results, formatted in the clinical language of two separate laboratories. Letters, yellowed slightly, the handwriting on the envelopes unmistakably my father's, though I wasn't ready to admit that out loud yet, not until I'd seen them myself. Then I returned them. I was sure that as power play, he went ahead and laid them calmly, evenly spaced, like a man presenting evidence he'd already accepted rather than evidence he expected anyone else to dispute, trying to prove he had nothing to hide. Roman wouldn't look at them. He sat with his arms crossed and eyes fixed somewhere past Asher's shoulder, with denial and anger plastered on his face. His expression suggested refusal from a man who understood that looking would mean seeing the quite irrefutable fact and acceptin
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