“I’m looking at you, Fran, and I don’t believe you’re sitting here telling me this incredible story.”
“I understand,” she whispered.
“Do you? Do you really?”
“You have every right to be angry, but I can explain.”
“Oh, I definitely want to hear this explanation.”
“Do you want to see a photograph of her?”
He recoiled, as if she’d struck him. Then he nodded.
“She looks much like you,” Francesca said, opening her purse. She handed him Bella’s most recent photo, taken before her genetics class, before she found out her mother had lied to her. She had been working on a watercolor, had been pleased with the result. She was even smiling. She had such a beautiful smile.
“Your eyes are the same color,” Francesca told him.
His gaze still glued to hers, Dale accepted the photograph. Finally he looked down. He displayed no emotion.
“You’re telling me this girl is my daughter? Our daughter?”
“She was born on February 23, almost nine months to the day after we last made love. I have her birth certificate if you want to see it.”
He looked up at her. “Is my name on it as the father?”
“No. My parents put another name down to protect the family.”
He glanced at the photograph again. “So our daughter is twelve years old.”
“Yes.”
“Twelve years, Francesca.” He fixed her with a look that finally revealed his disgust. “Why did you wait twelve years?”
“Well, this doesn’t look like much of a party,” a booming male voice announced.
Fran looked up at a man who stood by the table. She had been so intent on Dale, she had not noticed his approach. The stranger grinned and winked at Dale, but his expression changed as he intuited the tension in the air.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“Hey, Sean,” Dale said.
“Where’s everybody else?” Sean asked, sliding into the booth. His focus jumped between her and Dale.
“In the ladies’ room.”
“Excuse my buddy’s rudeness,” the man said. “I’m Sean O’Malley. And you are?”
“Francesca Scarpetta,” she replied, wishing this newcomer would go away.
“Pleased to meet you,” Sean said.
“Likewise.” Francesca glanced at Dale. Was this a sign that she should leave? No, she could not give up this soon. She would not. She had not told Dale everything yet.
He met her gaze. Oh, mio Dio, but his eyes were Bella’s eyes. He did not smile, but he nodded as if he had come to a painful decision.
“Tell everyone we had to go,” Dale said, motioning for her to exit the booth.
Uncertain what this meant, Francesca stood.
“Where are you going?” Sean protested. “This is your party,”
“Not anymore,” Dale said.
He took a firm hold on her elbow and led her through the boisterous crowd until they arrived outside in the steaming humidity of south Florida.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Dale said, hands on his hips. “But I couldn’t think in all that noise.”
“I have a hotel room,” she suggested. “We could go there.”
He nodded. “How long have you been in Miami?”
“I arrived this morning. Please, Dale. I have much to tell you. Let us wait until we get somewhere private.”
“Sure, why not. I’ve waited thirteen years for the truth. What’s a few more minutes, right?”
Francesca met his narrowed gaze, refusing to fight back. More conflict would only fuel the distrust between them. She needed him to trust her. She needed him to help her. No one else would.
“Do you have a car?” she asked. “I came by taxi.”
“Yeah. This way.”
She followed him across the parking lot to a boxy-looking vehicle that Americans called SUVs, in her opinion far too large for a person without a family.
He jerked open the passenger door, she climbed into the high front seat and he slammed the door behind her.
After sliding behind the wheel, Dale jammed his keys into the ignition and asked, “Where to?” He didn’t look at her.
“I’m staying at the Royal Siesta on Brickell.”
He shot her a glance. “That’s the priciest hotel in Miami.”
“Is it?”
He shook his head and started the engine. She waited for him to speak, to ask questions—he must have a lot of questions—but he remained silent. Dale’s mood reminded her of Bella’s recent withdrawal. Why didn’t I notice her retreat into herself sooner? What kind of a mother am I?
Francesca closed her eyes, trying to shut out the terrifying images that flooded her brain. Bella, beaten, her lovely green eyes surrounded by bruises. Her beautiful daughter on a bed naked and being raped. Images that had prevented sleep since the day Bella had gone missing.
Where was her daughter? Had the mysterious man from the coffee shop harmed her?
The horrifying images receded when Dale drove under the brightly lit overhang of her hotel. But her fears never went far. Terror lurked, ready to tumble her into a nightmare at any minute.
A smartly uniformed valet attendant rushed to open her door. Dale tossed his keys to another attendant and accepted a receipt.
When they entered the quiet lobby, decorated in subdued tones of blue and gray, the young female concierge Francesca had dealt with approached carrying her ever-present electronic notebook, welcoming her back with a smile.
“Do you require anything, Madame Scarpetta?” she asked.
“No,” she said, not breaking stride, wanting to get her explanations over with in the privacy of her room. Then she paused. “Wait. Please send up a bottle of wine to my suite.”
“Is our house wine satisfactory?”
“Yes.” Francesca turned to Dale. “Would you rather have beer?” He had been drinking beer in the bar.
“I think I’m going to need something stronger,” he said.
“Then please also send up a bottle of your best whiskey and an assortment of hot hors d’oeuvres,” Francesca requested.
The woman entered the order into her notebook. “Very good, madame.”
When the concierge scurried away, Francesca continued to the bank of sleek stainless-steel elevators. She could feel Dale’s gaze on her as they waited for a car to open. When she shot him a glance, he looked away.
His mood had not improved, but why should it?
An elevator door opened, and Dale motioned for her to enter first. She pressed the button for her floor, and the elevator shot up quietly.
“You must be doing very well,” Dale said, staring straight ahead.
“Doing well?” She whirled on him. He had every right to be angry, but this was too much. “I have been going crazy since Bella disappeared. You have no idea.”
He looked at her then. “I meant financially, to afford this hotel.”
“My travel agent made the arrangements,” she said, turning away, unable to meet those haunting green eyes.
“So you have no idea how much a room here will set you back?”
“I don’t care,” she said. “I only want to find my daughter.”
“I thought she was our daughter,” Dale said.
She shot him a look. “Then you believe me?”
He faced the door again. “I don’t know yet. I’m waiting to hear your story.”
Francesca nodded. They couldn’t even look at each other for more than five seconds. Not a good omen that he would agree to help her locate Bella.
She retrieved the electronic key from her purse and swiped it. The lock released with a click, Dale pushed the door open for her and she entered the spaci
ous suite.
The door to the bedroom was closed, and she had left the curtains in the living area open. Biscayne Bay and the island of Miami Beach spread out before them. It was not quite dark, but lights flickered everywhere, creating a beautiful, magical scene. Clouds reflected the corals and pinks of the setting sun on the other side of the towering hotel.
She had a sudden urge to go out on the balcony and sketch the view. The act of creation would calm her. She had not been able to work since Bella’s disappearance, but drawing had been her salvation her entire life, especially during the lonely days of her pregnancy. She would begin with the—
“Nice digs,” Dale said, snapping her out of her thoughts. He opened the balcony doors and stepped outside. Francesca dropped her purse on the sofa and followed him, placing her hands on the back of one of the four chairs surrounding a round glass table.
He looked around, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. After a few moments, he shook his head. “Not how I envisioned my evening would go.”
“I am sorry if I ruined your plans for the night,” she said.
“Sounds like you want to ruin my plans for my entire life.”
“That is not my intention, I swear,” Francesca said. “I am only here because Isabella learned the truth and wanted to meet you. Otherwise, you would never have known about her.”
“Do you honestly think that makes me feel better?” he asked, his voice steely. “My God, Fran.”
She plunged on, even though everything she said made him more hostile. “I want nothing from you, I swear.”
“I thought you wanted my help.”
“Yes, that. Of course. But when I find her, if you want, I will take her back to Rome and you can forget all about us.”
“Forget all about you?” Dale shot her such a scornful, disbelieving look that she had to turn away. She stared at the compelling view, no longer enthralled by its pull. She did not want to be here. She was handling everything all wrong. She did not want to have this conversation.
Yet she had no choice.
He pulled out a chair and motioned for her to sit. She did, and he sat opposite her. Their gazes collided and he raised his brows, waiting for her to speak. She owed him an explanation, but she did not know where to start. Where did the trouble begin?
“When I realized I was pregnant, I was scared but actually happy. I thought it solved our dilemma. I told my parents, expecting them to reach out to your mom and dad and force us to marry.” She shook her head.
“I was very wrong. My parents were disgusted with me, would not allow me to get in touch with you.” She remembered the horrible arguments, being locked in her room under guard so she could not escape.
“I don’t believe you,” he said, his voice hard.
“They took away my phone and my computer, any means of communication.”
“The Fran I knew would have found a way to contact me. I sure as hell tried to contact you.”
She nodded, struck by how he called her “Fran.” He’d always called her that.
“I did not know that. My parents kept that information from me until it was too late. I despaired you had forgotten me. You must remember I was seventeen years old, terrified and pregnant.”
“You weren’t seventeen for all of the last twelve years.”
“Try to understand that my country is not like yours. My parents were humiliated by my pregnancy and held me as a prisoner. They threatened to disown me, to throw me out on the street if I did not do as they said. What could I do? I was powerless. I had no option.”
His jaw tightened and he looked away from her.
“I was not allowed any contact with the outside world until the baby was born. You were a thousand miles away, and I had not heard from you.”
“I called, emailed, sent lengthy handwritten letters, posted on social media,” Dale said. “Anything I could think of short of stowing away on a plane. I had no way to buy a ticket or I would have flown to Italy to find you.”
“I am sorry, but please believe me that I only learned of your attempts five years ago. My father confessed his part on his death bed. My mother was furious that he told me.”
“These don’t sound like the charming, aristocratic parents you told me about.”
“I told you they did not like Americans. My father was in line for a political position, and they thought the scandal would ruin his career.”
“That’s a load of crap.”
Dale jumped to his feet, surprising her with his abrupt movement. She sat back as he headed to the railing and gripped it with his large hands, his focus seemingly on the view again. She suspected he saw nothing of its beauty.
She wanted to go to him, to comfort him for what he had lost, for what they both lost, but did not dare. So she leaned forward and tried to make him understand the dilemma she had been in.
“What they did was horrible, unforgiveable. I have hated them ever since, but Bella loves her grandparents. How could I tell her the truth? What was there to be gained?”
He whirled on her. “This is nuts.”
“I know. I am sorry. We have both lost so much.”
He leaned against the balcony rail and leveled her with a stare. “Eventually you left your parents’ home. Why didn’t you contact me then?”
She shrugged. “It was too late. The baby was born, and I was certain you had moved on, had a new life. My parents needled me with the fact that you had not contacted me.”
He stepped toward her. “That’s—”
“A terrible lie, yes.” She held up a hand to stop him. “I know that now, but they kept the truth from me, so I also hated you for abandoning me.”
“I did not abandon you.”
“I understand.”
“You should have tried harder to contact me.”
She shook her head. “You do not know what it was like, what I went through.”
“And you don’t know what I went through, do you?”
“You were a teenaged boy with his first broken heart. I was a ruined girl, alone with a baby and no way to raise her without my parents’ help. I had not even finished school.”
His jaw tightened. After a moment he said, “Yeah, that was probably rough.”
She raised her chin. “I do not want anything from you but help in finding our daughter.”
“I can’t help you.”
“Why not? You are a police officer. That is your job.”
“No, it’s not.”
Francesca raised a hand to her lips. She’d counted on Dale’s help. She had run out of options. “She is your daughter.”
He looked away. “So you say.”
“She is. I swear it.”
“How can I believe you, Fran? You show up in Miami thirteen years later with a story that’s just a little too—” he waved his hand “—convenient for you.”
“I have proof,” she said.
“What kind of proof?”
She rose, feeling as if she were ninety years old, and retrieved her purse from the sofa. She found the DNA report provided by the lab and presented the papers to Dale.
“This whole disaster began when Bella took an advanced science workshop and learned about genetics. According to her friend Gina, Bella got curious and had her DNA tested. That test revealed that the man she believed was her father could not be any relation to her.”
Dale glanced away from the report. “What man?”
“My parents forced me to marry.”
* * *
DALE STARED DOWN at the papers in his hand, but couldn’t focus on the words, the acronyms, the numbers. For some reason nothing made sense. What did any of this matter?
“But you said your name is still Scarpetta,” he said.
“In Italy women keep their own name when they marry. It was a private ceremony. My mother want
ed no one to see my ‘shame.’”
Fran was married. But of course she was married. If her crazy story about giving birth to his daughter and being held prisoner by her old-school parents was true, it made sense that those parents would have insisted she have a husband.
She was married. He preferred to think of her as dead rather than married to another man.
No, he preferred not thinking about her at all.
He had a sudden urge to leave this hotel room, run away from this problem.
What the hell was wrong with him?
“I can’t read this,” he said, thrusting the papers back to her. “It’s in Italian.”
“An English translation is stapled to the bottom.”
Dale flipped the papers until he found the translation. The first thing he did was search for the birth date of the child, which confirmed the timing. By the math, Isabella Farnese Romano, the subject of this report, could be his daughter.
But that didn’t make it true. Who knew what Francesca did when she returned to Italy. Maybe she flew back into the arms of her old boyfriend and became pregnant by him.
But maybe not.
He tried to read the report, but what the hell was an allele? And what did its size matter?
A loud bell interrupted his attempt to process the report.
“That must be room service,” Fran said.
She left him on the balcony to answer the door, and he returned to the report. No way could he understand the science without an expert’s explanation. Fortunately, he knew the right person to show this report to. The Miami-Dade Police Department had the best forensics unit in the southeast.
He scanned to the conclusion.
“The alleged father is excluded as the biological father of the tested child. This conclusion is based on the nonmatching alleles observed at the loci listed above with a PI equal to 0. The alleged father lacks the genetic markers that must be contributed to the child by the biological father. Based on our analysis, the probability of paternity is zero.”
Dale shook his head. He’d get Dr. Wong to explain the details about PI and alleles, but he got it that this report indicated Fran’s husband wasn’t her daughter’s father.
Her One and Only Hero Page 3
