by Vella Day
As he led her outside, weak rays of sun filtered through the trees. The rain may have dissipated, but with it came the humidity. As they traveled downtown to the lawyer’s office, he remained quiet. Whether he was mentally working on his case or giving her time to collect her thoughts, she didn’t know. Either way was fine by her.
“The will reading seems so unnecessary, considering I’m the only relative.”
What her folks didn’t give away in charity, she’d inherit. Not that she cared. Her trust fund would provide her with whatever she needed.
“I believe it’s legally necessary with an estate of this size.” He walked her to the lawyer’s office, and her heart seemed to need all of her strength just to beat.
She better get a hold on her emotions or she’d never be able to make it through this day. “You sure you don’t want to come in?”
“I’ll wait out here.” He gently placed his hands on her arms.
“You don’t think there are any boogie men inside ready to attack me?” Please be by my side.
He shook his head once. “You’ll be fine. If you need me, I’m right here.” His look of sincerity kicked up her affection a notch.
She rubbed a hand down his jacketed arm, the rough fabric tickling her palm. “Thank you.”
What she knew of Trevor, he’d be embarrassed to learn the size of her family fortune, though her parents’ house surely had given him a clue.
She ducked into the darkly lit conference room. The two men at the large oval table stood. Both were dressed in dark blue suits, pastel shirts, and striped ties. Oh, my. Arthur Wellington had been the family attorney since before she was born. Worry lines etched deep furrows in his forehead and cheeks. His weight loss must have caused his shoulders to fold over his chest.
She’d expected a few other people to be present, but in truth, how many people were needed to read a piece of paper?
“Hello, Arthur.”
“Ms. Romano, please have a seat.”
“Lara, please.” After all, he’d come to their house numerous times for dinner when she was growing up.
She placed her purse on the carpeted floor, and then swept a hand down her braid. There was nothing to be nervous about, so why was she?
“Can we offer you some coffee or tea?” the man next to Arthur asked.
“No, thank you.” She didn’t need to be running to the bathroom in the middle of the meeting. She wanted this ordeal to end.
Arthur’s voice droned on as he read the will’s details. No surprise, the servants received stipends, and her folks’ favorite charities received large endowments. She was given the rest of the estate, estimated at twenty million.
Lara stood. “Thank you.”
Mr. Wellington cleared his throat. “There’s one more thing. Please sit down.” His hands shook. Did he suffer from palsy? He wasn’t that old. Seventy at most.
“If it’s about their vintage car—”
“No. It’s a letter to you.”
“From?”
“Your mother.”
Oh, God. Could she handle hearing her mom’s words? “Go on.”
How she’d had the strength to speak, she didn’t know.
“Dear Lara,” he began. “I’m so sorry if you’re hearing this, for your daddy and I will have passed away. I’ve rewritten this letter more times than I can count, but I am still unable to express our sorrow at what this letter may bring you.
“There’s something your father and I need to tell you. Something we never were comfortable talking about.”
The lawyer looked up.
The agony in his eyes stopped her heart.
13
“What is it?” Lara’s heart strained against her chest wall, beating fast and irregular. “What did my parents want to tell me?” The lights in the dark paneled room seemed to dim further.
Arthur Wellington closed the letter. “There’s no easy way to tell you.”
“Tell me what?” She clenched her jaw so hard her molars ground against each other.
“You were adopted.”
Acid took a bite out of her stomach as denial rushed in. “I can’t be adopted.”
Arthur leaned across the table and grasped her hand. “I’m afraid you were.”
She jerked her hand free. “You’re wrong.”
“Lara.” He waved the piece of paper. “Do you want me to read the letter again?”
“No.” She heard his words, but failed to believe them. “Are you sure she’s telling the truth?” Dumb question. Why would her mother lie?
He straightened his already perfectly tied tie. “Yes. I helped draw up the adoption papers.”
The blood drained from her brain, and her nerves jerked every which way. “Did my birth mother die or something? Is that why she gave me up?” Would the answer make her heavy heart ache any less?
“The Romanos desperately wanted a child but were unable to conceive. You were born to an unwed mother from New Mexico.”
And here she thought her nightmare was coming to an end.
Arthur pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to her. “This is your birth certificate.”
The thin piece of paper weighed heavy in her hands. She squinted through tears to read the words. The name, Lara Ann Gilmore appeared under the baby’s name. Birth mother was listed as Lucy Gilmore.
Her head nearly exploded. “There has to be a mistake. I’ve seen my birth certificate and it says Bladen and Miriam were my birth parents.”
“I’m sorry. Your mother had that certificate forged so you wouldn’t find out.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Her hands trembled and her breathing turned more difficult. “When was I adopted?”
“When you were almost two.”
She searched her mind for pictures of herself as an infant but came up blank. Why hadn’t she asked to see photos of herself as a baby? Like that of her mother washing her in the sink? Dressing her in cute, pink clothes? Eating her first birthday cake?
Betrayal and anger pressed in on her. “How could they lie to me? And why would they?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Why didn’t they tell me sooner? Why didn’t you?” She knew. As the family lawyer, he couldn’t break her parents’ confidence.
Arthur Wellington cleared his throat and motioned his partner for some coffee. “Maybe they were afraid you’d want to connect to your birth mother, that you might push them out of your life. I really couldn’t say.”
“I never would have abandoned my parents. I loved them.” Her fingers crushed the fabric on her jacket. She’d voice those words too many times in the last few days.
Mr. Wellington’s mouth sat in a grim line, his arms crossed over his chest. Lies, all lies. Was there nothing sacred? Was there no one she could depend on?
She put the pieces together when he said nothing more. She’d apparently come from poverty and maybe ignorance. Okay. She could deal with those issues. “Do you know of any medical issues my biological parents had that I should be aware of?”
“No. I’m sorry.” He accepted the hot drink from the other man, his gaze shifting right and left.
Unable to absorb the ramifications of this new information, her mind dulled for a moment. One by one, questions flitted through. She dropped her head in her hands. Tears burned the back of her eyes but refused to fall, the hurt too deep, too cutting.
“Lara.” She glanced up. Mr. Wellington had moved next to her, the aroma of the coffee finally reaching her. He placed a hand on her shoulder, his movement awkward and stiff. “Maybe you should find your birth mother and ask her your questions if it would make you feel better.”
She swiped a hand across her cheeks. Nothing would make her feel better. The only parents she knew were dead. No stranger could replace what her parents meant to her.
I do want to find her so I can ask why she’d given me up and abandoned me. Find out why my parents lied. What were they hiding from me?
“Maybe I will.” Or not.
She couldn’t make any decisions yet.
She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and shoved back her chair. This time when she stood, neither lawyer tried to stop her. Halfway out the door she realized Trevor was outside. Her emotions were too raw to confide in him. What would she say? How would she word what was filling her head?
Would Trevor think less of her if he knew?
Don’t go there. He’ll be out of your life soon anyway.
Don’t trust anyone.
She needed her efforts focused on identifying her John Doe, not on something that had happened over thirty years ago.
She straightened her jacket and smoothed the wisps of hair matted to her face. Shoving down her despair, she barely had enough strength to pull open the heavy wooden door.
Trevor shot up from the big leather chair and rushed over to her. “Lara?” He tilted her chin up and searched her face, and then brushed a hair from her cheek. “You want to talk about what happened?”
She waved a hand and stepped back. “I’m overwhelmed, that’s all. Maybe later.” She couldn’t discuss her adoption right now—or the betrayal.
“Sure.”
Tell him.
No, don’t. Not until I learn who I really am. She was defective enough with her hearing loss. Toss in being adopted, and any man would run away. Everyone she’d cared about already had.
Trevor wrapped an arm around her waist and escorted her to the car. Both of her suitcases sat in the back seat.
“Why are my things packed?”
“We’re going to the safe house. Remember?”
She dropped her head against the seat as he backed out of the lot. “Right. Safe house.” Her hands trembled. “Would you mind stopping at the lab before taking me?”
His mouth rounded and his cheeks puckered as though he was letting out a long breath. “I’m in the middle of an investigation.” He glanced at her. “Look, you need to take a few days off. For your own sanity, you need to stay away from the lab, stay away from the case, and stay away from me.”
Trevor turned his head toward his side view mirror, blocking his expression.
“Will I see you again?”
He faced her for a moment. “We’ll see.”
Maggie, Maggie. His wonderful Maggie. He needed her, but creating this tableau was too important to chance a diversion. Time was short.
Once he turned down the dirt driveway, his house was the only visible building for miles. The barn sat at the edge of the twenty-acre property and was perfect for what he needed. While he itched to paint the decaying structure, he didn’t dare call attention to the fact anyone lived or worked there. The boarded up windows on the house and the overgrown shrubs should stop any nosy bastard from finding them.
He parked inside the barn, slipped out and inhaled the calming smell of hay and formaldehyde, admiring his neat workspace. He’d neatly organized the barn into work areas. The prep stations, which were at the heart of his work, sat in the middle of the room with Halogen track lights centered above each of the three worktables. What he liked best about his setup was how the lights illuminated the natural texture and color of the skin, giving his recreations realistic skin tones. The expense to install those lights had been well worth the cost.
Along the back wall were four stages, each one covered by a hanging sheet to allow him to watch the show whenever he needed a fix.
Like right now.
Having promised himself he’d never forget his roots, he walked over to the stage on the left and drew back the drape. Christ. The first scene was so pedestrian and unrefined. The faces were out of portion, but still, it had been his first. He lowered the sheet and stepped over to his next masterpiece, the one the Tampa Museum had requested. His first showing would be in two weeks, and he had barely slept from the excitement.
His breath caught at his fine work. While not as good as his newest tableau, it was good nonetheless. He stepped over to the tall man dressed in fine buckskin clothes and authentic crow feathers. The mannequin’s lustrous black hair was silk to his fingers, and the Seminole’s strong nose and full lips made him so hero-like. He smiled and his groin reacted. He loved these men. And women. The Seminoles were such a handsome race.
Before he returned to work, he moved to the third tableau and studied his work in progress. Oh, my. Momma would have been so proud if she’d lived. He’d immortalized Native Americans for her, and her alone. His mom had given him a heritage he could be proud of, whereas his father’s people only considered him a half-breed.
He didn’t care that the Seminoles had snubbed him when they saw his first attempts at recreating their history. Wait until they saw what he had in store next. They’d be singing a different tune. Yes they would.
The three women along the back were amazing—so real, so lifelike, so young and pure. He touched the young girl’s breast, squeezed it, and leaned over to kiss her ever so lightly on her waxen lips, careful not to ruin the shape. His erection strained against his pants, and he grabbed his crotch to ease the ache. Breaths quick, he moved back. Fantasizing now would take him away from what he needed to do. He adjusted his dick, took one last look at the beautiful display and went back to his station wagon.
He struggled to lift the heavy man onto the sanitized worktable. Christ. His back ached, and despite the air conditioner cooling the barn to a nice seventy degrees, sweat beaded on his forehead. As soon as he had spare cash, he’d purchase a Hoyer lift to help him move the bodies.
Pulling a clean handkerchief from his breast pocket, he wiped his damp brow, and then dusted his suit of any stray dirt. He couldn’t chance having any evidence on his attire even though there was no way in hell the stupid police would ever figure out what happened to the missing Seminoles.
With only seven weeks left until his tableau was due in Washington DC, he couldn’t afford for anything to go wrong. He studied the facial structure and prayed he could augment the man’s cheeks to make him appear Algonquin. He could do it. Anything was possible, unless outside forces worked against him.
Anxiety clawed at him every day. Even with the two AC units, a backup generator, a surge protector, and smoke detectors, he still worried about power surges cutting off the cooling units. God forbid lightning would strike and set his barn on fire. It would take an hour for a fire truck to reach this remote area and all would be lost—not to mention they’d find the exposed skeletons underneath the melted wax.
Time for work. He shrugged out of his navy blue pinstriped jacket and hung it up before donning a large, beige apron to protect his pleated pants. From a drawer under the center worktable, he removed a pair of gloves, along with a facemask that had a top-of-the-line filter designed to remove the unhealthy dust.
Once he measured the precise amount of plaster, he went over to the large vat, filled the tub with exactly twenty-five gallons of warm water and slowly added the fine powder. He’d stirred for less than a minute when his cell rang. What bad timing. Five rings. Ten rings. Crap. He should have set up his voice mail, but he didn’t like having to call people back.
With two gloved fingers, he lifted the annoying phone from his shirt pocket. His brother’s name appeared. Damn. If he didn’t answer, the pest would keep calling.
He tore off his mask. “Yes?” He gave him his most arrogant tone. It was the only way to deal with him. Just because his older brother had more schooling than he did, his brother thought he was God’s gift to Mensa.
Fool’s gift was more like it.
“Where are you?” his brother asked.
He ignored the biting question and continued to stir the mixture, not wanting the blend to harden before he was ready. “I’m home. Why?”
“Why? Did you forget it was Mom’s birthday?”
Fuck. He leaned the stirrer against the side of the pot and edged away from the swirling dust. Even after his mother died, his dad and brother kept up the ridiculous ritual of celebrating her birthday with a cake no less. Thank God they didn’t expect him to buy her a prese
nt.
“I didn’t forget.” That wouldn’t be the first lie he’d told his family.
“Can you come over later? Dad made his special goulash.”
His favorite. Once he dipped the body, he’d have to leave it to dry for at least five hours anyway. “I’ll try to make it.” He picked up the wooden stick and stirred the thickening stew. “In case I don’t make it before you leave, I want to share some good news.” His heart sped up at the impending announcement.
“What?”
“Please tell Dad that I received an invitation to exhibit at the National History Museum in Washington, DC.” He smiled, imagining the shock on his older brother’s face. A strong surge raced to his groin.
“What could you possibly exhibit?”
Asshole. “I told you I’m doing an exhibit of my Native American wax collection at the Tampa Museum in two weeks. Someone saw my portfolio and invited me to do another tableau in Washington.”
“I thought you were kidding about the wax figures. Weren’t they a failure the last time you put them on display?”
A few of the Seminoles had thought that and had even said his work was a disgrace to the Native American tradition because he had some of the features wrong.
That’s why they had to die.
“I’ve improved.” A lot, now that he used real humans underneath the wax instead of crappy plaster molds. The faces and bodies were in perfect proportion.
When his brother laughed, he stabbed the pole into the large vat. “I’ll send you an invitation so you can see for yourself.”
“You do that, but do try to stop by the house.”
“I’ll try.” If only to see his father’s face beam when he showed him the letter—proof positive that he was finally going to be an acclaimed success—a bigger success than his brother could ever hope to be.
14
Lara paced the safe house’s small guest bedroom. Yes, the bed was queen-sized with a fluffy comforter and big bolster pillows, and the walls were painted in soothing browns and blues, but the bars on the windows made her feel trapped. What if there were a fire? Yikes.
