by Meg O'Brien
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Rachel!” Gina’s brow furrowed. “Why would you think such a thing? It’s preposterous!”
“Then why was he staring?” Rachel pressed.
“I really don’t think he was. He was sitting at a table drinking his coffee, and he just didn’t have anything else to look at.”
“Your mother’s right,” Paul said. “People do that in restaurants—”
“Wait a minute,” Duarte cut in. “This is the first I’ve heard about this.”
“It was nothing,” Gina insisted, flushing. “Just a man having coffee.”
“Come to think of it, he was looking more at Mom than me,” Rachel said.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Rachel! He was staring off into space.”
“Even so…what’d this guy look like?” Duarte asked.
Gina shrugged. “I hardly noticed.”
“Oh, Mom. Now that I think of it, you actually blushed the first time you saw him looking at you.” Rachel turned to Duarte. “He was nice-looking, about forty maybe, blond hair with a little bit of gray, wore jeans and a red sweatshirt over a white tee. Not scruffy, though, more of a nice, laid-back look—”
“What did you do, take notes?” Gina interrupted testily. She gave an embarrassed look to Paul, then Duarte, whose expression was bland.
“It happens sometimes,” she said finally. “Men seem to look at me in restaurants, coffee shops, that sort of thing. I don’t take it seriously. It happens to every woman.”
“Especially if they look like you,” Rachel teased.
“Rachel, please,” Gina said irritably. She folded her arms and looked away.
“But it’s true. You’re very attractive, Mom.”
There was a small silence in which Paul shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His eyes went to Gina, his expression one of a man who hasn’t actually seen his wife in years. “You, uh, I guess you have to be careful these days,” he said. “Right, Detective?”
“Well, it never hurts to be careful,” Duarte said. “Any of these guys ever come up and talk to you? Want to sit with you?”
Gina jumped to her feet. “This is ridiculous!”
“Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” Rachel said, in a half serious, half teasing tone. “Mom, just how many of these admirers have you had coffee with?”
Gina turned her back on them and stood before a lighted, glass-paned bookcase. Her spine was rigid, unyielding.
“Hey, lighten up, Mom,” Rachel said softly into the silence that suddenly filled the room. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Your mother’s just tired,” Paul said quickly. “Like the rest of us.”
“I can speak for myself,” Gina said, facing them with a scowl.
“Then do so, for God’s sake!” Paul said, throwing up his hands. He stood and began to pace.
“All right, I will!” Gina replied, raising her voice. “I damn well will! For instance, if it hadn’t been for you—” She broke off and fell silent.
“If it hadn’t been for me, what?” Paul demanded, his face only paces from hers.
“We might have brought her home,” Gina said in a low voice. “We might have taken a chance.”
“A chance on Angela, you mean? Is that what you wanted? To put Rachel in danger—” He broke off when Duarte leaned forward slightly, giving them his full attention.
“Mom’s right,” Rachel said, her own voice rising. “You could have brought her back after she had treatment. You could have given her another chance. Even Gamma says so.”
Gina gave her a horrified look. “Your grandmother? She told you that?”
“At least she misses her!” Rachel cried, jumping to her feet. “You two act like she died!”
For an interminable ten minutes, none of the Bradleys had spoken. The tension in the room was so thick you could almost see it walking around, Duarte thought. He doodled on a yellow pad, then ran the eraser of his pencil across the scars on his thirty-year-old wooden desk, giving nothing away. Privately, however, he was thinking that it wouldn’t take much more to send this family over the edge. He had known that from the first, or more correctly intuited it. That’s why he’d decided to sit with them and wait for the prints. People in a police station were often under so much stress they said and did things they wouldn’t otherwise.
Was somebody trying to send them over the edge? he wondered. Were the Bradleys right about that note? And what the hell else was going on here?
Certainly the husband and wife didn’t seem all that close. The wife may or may not have been playing with fire, flirting with other guys—or at least thinking about it. The husband? He didn’t even act as if he cared if she was. And then there was the kid. She was deliberately trying to stir something up. Duarte wasn’t sure what, yet, but something.
Look at the three of them. They’re sitting too far apart. Not even making eye contact. They look like three different people who came in here to report similar, but not quite identical, crimes. The father would have his take on it, the wife another and the daughter yet another.
Well, it wasn’t his business. There was a time when he would have involved himself with this family, gone beyond the call of duty to help them out. Duarte was tired, though. Burned-out. He’d been at this job thirty-four years, since he was twenty-three, and he’d seen too much. People in families did strange things, and when he was younger, his curiosity, if nothing else, would have been piqued. He’d have gone off in search of clues like a Dalmatian at a five-alarm fire.
Nowadays, he still worked hard. He just didn’t have the old passion for the job.
His thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of his phone. He picked up the receiver and talked, then tapped on the desk with his pencil point, making even more indentations in the wood. Hanging up finally, he said, “They found prints on the note from all three of you and the shrink. There’s also one unknown. They ran it through the computer. Nothing came up.”
No one spoke immediately. Then Paul asked, “So, what do we do now?”
“Well, if you could get me a sample of the twin’s prints…”
Gina and Paul looked at each other. “I doubt they’d have fingerprinted her at Saint Sympatica’s,” Paul said.
“But you could call there and find out,” Duarte said. “Right?”
“Yes, I suppose I could.”
“Do that, then,” Duarte said. “If you find out they’ve got the prints, let me know and I’ll call them myself, get them to fax them here.”
Paul looked uncertain.
“Is there a problem?” Duarte asked.
“No. No, of course not.”
Paul and Gina stood. Rachel gathered up her coat and pink scarf, putting them on. She looked down at her hands thoughtfully, while sliding on her gloves.
“You know, I’ve been thinking,” she said. “Maybe we don’t really need to go that far. Getting Angela’s fingerprints, I mean.”
Her mother eyed her curiously. “Rachel?”
“Well, I’m pretty sure I overreacted,” Rachel said, not meeting her eyes. “Nothing really happened to us, after all. And it was Christmas Eve, like the detective said. Drunks on the road.” She gave a shrug. “I don’t know, maybe we should just accept that and not, you know, go looking for trouble.”
“Looking for trouble?” her mother said.
“Well, yeah. If Angela hears somehow that we’re asking about her, she could turn up here…” Rachel’s voice dwindled off. “I mean, if she really isn’t here already, she might think we want to see her.”
“And you don’t want that now?” Paul asked.
“Well, do you?” Rachel glared at him.
Paul fell silent. Detective Duarte cleared his throat and said bluntly, “You know, folks, the fact is, it’s not really up to you anymore.”
All three turned to him.
“Look at it this way,” he said. “We’ve already got a hit-and-run investigation underway from the other night. Add to that this note and what
you’ve told me about this twin, she’s got to be part of the investigation now. We can’t just dismiss her.”
He watched as the Bradleys’ faces fell, and could almost hear them wishing they’d never come here today.
“Thing is,” he added, “you’ve caught my interest. I’d like to help you folks out, so I’m giving you an option. Call that orphanage and see what you can find out—or I will.”
He stood and took one last bite out of his cookie, then said, “Look, it’s been a long day, and I’m anxious to get home and feed my cat. So if I have to stay here and work any longer, I’m not gonna be in a good mood. Which is it gonna be?”
“I’ll call,” Paul said tiredly. He looked at his watch again. “I have some business to take care of, though. Is it okay if I let you know how it goes in the morning?”
“Sure,” Duarte said. “What is it, after six? You might not be able to reach anyone in the office there, anyway, what with the time difference.”
“Right,” Paul said. “Tomorrow, then.”
Duarte watched the Bradleys leave, their faces pale and strained. Whether this sister—this evil twin or whatever you wanted to call her—was after them or not, they were in trouble. He wasn’t really sure he wanted to be around when it all came down. Things were tough enough these days.
The next morning, Paul sat at the desk in his home office, staring out at the leaden morning sky. Thick gray fog hovered over Seattle like a harbinger of trouble. Nothing can go well on a day like this, it seemed to say. The only color to be seen was the top of the Space Needle, with its flashing red light. It sat above the fog like a flying saucer, resting on clouds. Closer in, his backyard called to him. Weeds he hadn’t pulled in the fall were now lifeless and brown. They would come back, though, and if he didn’t get them out before spring, they’d choke out the azaleas and rhodies.
Back in late August he had told Gina not to hire anyone to do the gardening; he’d looked forward to getting outside and working out. Then, in September, he’d met Lacey, and there hadn’t been time to do all the things he’d planned to do before the rains set in.
Paul sighed. Nothing these days was turning out the way he’d planned. He had managed a quick call to Lacey the night before, coming into his office and closing the door behind him. He’d told her what was going on; about the note in Rachel’s pocket, how they had reported it and had been tied up at the police station for hours.
Lacey’s response had been soothing, “I’m sure it’ll be all right, Paul. Get some rest. Things will look better in the morning.”
Soothing but not realistic, he thought. Things did not look better now. He still had to call Saint Sympatica’s, and he was dreading it. He had thought they’d closed that Pandora’s box years ago. Opening it now was the last thing he wanted to do.
What if they did have Angela’s fingerprints? And what if they matched those on the note? The police would look for her, and if they found her, he, Rachel, and Gina would eventually have to come face-to-face with her.
He didn’t think he could take that.
What would she be like now? His last memory of Angela was from fifteen years ago: a six-year-old girl with dark brown hair in two ponytails, her hazel eyes brimming with huge tears as he and Gina said goodbye for the final time.
No one had told the child that this was the last time she would ever see them, but Angela seemed to know. She had clung to them as if they were the only thing between her and some awful terror they would never understand. Paul had finally been forced to pry her loose from Gina’s arms. It nearly killed him to hear her cries as Dr. Chase led her away.
They had turned to go back to their car, and looked behind them only once, in time for Paul to see a fleeting expression of anger as Angela’s mouth tightened into a thin line. She was standing on the steps of the orphanage, her hand in Dr. Chase’s. They watched her yank away from him and stomp up the steps to the heavy front doors, slamming them behind her as if they weighed no more than feathers.
Her physical strength was mind-boggling, and just as frightening as it had been the night she had tried to kill Rachel.
Paul had to keep reminding himself of that on the drive home that day. She tried to kill Rachel. It was the only way he had managed to keep his foot on the gas and not go back there, sweep her up into his arms and carry her home.
He pulled himself together and looked at his watch. Nearly ten in the morning. With the two-hour time difference, if he didn’t call Saint Sympatica’s now, they would probably be at lunch. Besides, he needed to get to Soleil. There were orders to fill, people to consult with.
Sighing again, he pulled out his address book, picked up the phone and punched in the Minnesota numbers he had thought he would never need again. As the phone rang on the other end, it seemed every muscle and nerve in his body went taut. He felt he must be on the alert for bad news, though he wasn’t sure why.
A receptionist answered and put him through to Anita Ewing, who surprised him by remembering immediately who he was.
“I wasn’t sure you would still be there,” Paul said.
“Well, it’s true I have thought several times of retiring,” Mrs. Ewing answered, “but it seems there’s always a new child here who needs our help. It would be difficult, you know, to just turn our work over to someone else.”
“Your husband is still there, too?” Paul asked, wondering if the other owner and director of Saint Sympatica’s had passed on, yet not wanting to be so blunt as to put the question into words.
“Oh my, yes, Rodney just never gives up. We had a bit of a scare a year ago when he had to have a pacemaker put in, but he’s fine now.” She paused. “What can I do for you, Mr. Bradley? Is everything all right with…let’s see, Rachel, isn’t it?”
“Yes, everything’s fine. At least we think it is. Mrs. Ewing, we’re wondering if you know where Angela is now? Also—and I know this sounds like an unusual question—but did you ever take her fingerprints?”
There was a small silence at the other end. “What has Angela done?” Mrs. Ewing said finally, in a low, worried tone.
“We don’t really think she’s done anything,” Paul answered quickly. “We’re just trying to rule out the possibility that she was involved in a…well, in an accident here.”
“An accident.” Mrs. Ewing’s tone was flat.
“It’s really nothing,” Paul said, wondering why he felt a need to protect Angela, even now. “An automobile accident. We think it was probably just a drunk driver, but the police want all bases covered.”
Another silence. Finally Anita Ewing said, “Mr. Bradley, I don’t know that I can help you. You and Mrs. Bradley gave up your rights as adoptive parents years ago, and in accordance with our policy, Angela’s whereabouts are confidential now. As for fingerprints, no, we never did that here.”
“No, I suppose not,” Paul said, not knowing whether to be disappointed or relieved.
“Do you mind if I ask why you would need fingerprints?” Mrs. Ewing said. “If it was only an accident…”
Paul decided suddenly to level with her. If she were to be any help at all, she needed to know. “There was a note,” he said.
“A note?”
“With…well, with a fingerprint on it that didn’t belong to any of us.”
“What kind of note?” Anita Ewing asked sharply.
“It, uh, seemed to indicate that our car was run off the road on purpose.”
“Oh, my God,” the director said softly.
Trying to quell her alarm, he added, “It could have just been a prank, of course. In fact, I’m sure that’s what it was. But you might be hearing from the Seattle police. They might want to know where Angela is now. Would you be able to give them that information?”
“It depends,” the director said after a moment. “I’ll have to talk with our lawyers. And frankly, I’m not sure we even know where Angela is.”
“I understand. Would you…would you please do that as soon as possible?”
; “Certainly.” A small pause. “Mr. Bradley, how is your wife doing?”
“Well, after all these years I guess you learn to focus on other things. Even so, I don’t think you can raise a child for five years and come to love her, then just forget she ever existed.”
“Still, with the passing of time…” Mrs. Ewing suggested.
“It gets easier, yes. It just doesn’t disappear.”
A sound of papers being ruffled came through from the other end. “Well,” Anita Ewing said in the brisk, efficient tone Paul remembered, “we’ll see what happens, won’t we?”
“Yes. Yes, I guess we will,” Paul said.
A feeling of doom swept over him as he hung up the phone. The brooding Seattle skyline now seemed light compared to his mood. He placed a call to Duarte’s office. When the detective’s voice came on with a grouchy “Duarte!”, Paul debated about just hanging up. Why not forget the whole thing, pretend nothing had happened? Maybe it would all go away.
Instead, he told the detective simply, “The orphanage never took prints. The director said she couldn’t tell me where Angela is. She has to talk to her lawyers, and then maybe she’ll talk to you.”
“Damn.” Paul could hear the pencil tapping. “Well, I’ll let you know when I hear from her.”
“Okay,” Paul said. He was starting to hang up when Duarte spoke again.
“What about those newborn footprints they take in the hospital? Do they have those?”
“I didn’t ask, but the babies were three months old when the birth mother left them at the orphanage. Saint Sympatica’s never mentioned her leaving any newborn prints there—” Paul broke off. “Why, what good would they do?”
The pencil-tapping stopped. “Well, if she, uh…ended up in the morgue.”
Paul sat hunched over, his eyes covered by one hand, Duarte’s words ringing in his ears. Angela, in the morgue? She was only twenty-one. God, no. Please!
They left it that Duarte would talk to the orphanage and take it from there.
After hanging up, Paul’s depression deepened. Again he was jolted back to that last day with Angela. He could still see himself and Gina sitting with her on the broad expanse of lawn in front of Saint Sympatica’s. In so many ways it had seemed a normal spring day, with robins hopping along the grass amidst a carpet of yellow dandelions. Baby birds chirped in the trees, and a fountain with angels in the middle of a circular driveway tinkled in the background.
