by Elle Kennedy
She left the kitchen, and a moment later, the muffled sound of voices drifted from the front entrance. Bailey and Reilly were clearly getting reacquainted, though their low tones and the absence of laughter hinted that their reunion wasn’t quite sunshine and rainbows.
Morgan’s phone buzzed again, this time indicating an incoming call from Kane.
“Mr. Popular,” Noelle said sarcastically.
He ignored her and picked up without delay. “Hey. Everything cool down there?”
“All good, boss. No sign of any rebel activity.”
“Good. What’s up, then?”
Kane’s tone became serious. “Have you checked your e-mail today?”
His brow furrowed. “No.” He paused. “Why? Have you checked my e-mail today? Because hacking into other people’s accounts is illegal, you know.”
There was a snicker in his ear. “I didn’t hack into shit. I’m talking about the company e-mail.”
As usual, the word “company” threw him off, until he remembered that technically he was a company man. He was the owner and founder of a private security company specializing in military operations abroad, and although the work he and his men did sure as hell didn’t feel like a business, they had no choice but to look clean on paper.
Still, that didn’t mean he spent much time on the business side of things. He had a business manager, a financial advisor, and a damn good accountant to handle all that stuff. He spoke to them on the phone a few times a year and they took care of the paperwork—all Morgan had to do was scribble his John Hancock wherever the little yellow Post-its told him to.
The e-mail aspect, though, had been Holden McCall’s job. Morgan had been making an effort to respond to all the messages in Holden’s absence, but he realized now that he hadn’t checked the company inbox for at least a week.
“I haven’t even looked,” he admitted. “When we get hired for a job, the contact usually calls me directly. Why? Is someone trying to contract us?”
“Not quite.”
Kane’s vague response was a cause for concern.
“What’s going on?” Morgan demanded.
“Uh, yeah. Just go check your e-mail, Jim. And feel free to call me back after you do. In fact, I insist you call me back because I’m really fucking curio—”
Morgan had already hung up.
Never mind that Kane had called him “Jim,” which the guy did only when something serious was up; Kane’s refusal to relay the information over the phone was even more alarming.
“Everything okay?” Noelle asked from the counter.
“Not sure yet,” he muttered, swiping his fingers over the touch screen of his phone.
Logging into the company inbox seemed to take forever, and then he had to wait a million more seconds for the new messages to load. He scanned each one, finding mostly memos from his accountant—shit, he really needed to start responding to the man’s e-mail if he wanted to keep the IRS off his back—but it was the message near the top that caught his eye.
The sender’s name read Cate4821, from a free account provider. Subject line: “Hi.”
Okay. Cryptic enough.
Frowning, he opened the e-mail and read the first line.
And that was as far as he got, because his entire world had come to a grinding halt.
Mr. Morgan,
I know this must sound crazy, but I think you might be my father.
Chapter 19
Morgan gawked at the screen, still stuck on the first line.
I know this must sound crazy, but I think you might be my father.
He’d stopped breathing, and his lungs burned from the lack of oxygen, but he was still too stunned to move, let alone breathe.
I know this must sound crazy, but I think you might be my father.
“Jim?”
He heard Noelle’s voice, ringing with genuine concern. He vaguely saw her slide off her stool and walk toward him, but he couldn’t focus on anything but the phone in his hand.
“Jim? What’s wrong?”
I know this must sound crazy, but I think you might be my father.
It took everything he had to tear his gaze away from those words, but he wasn’t worried about forgetting them. They were already burned into his mind like a cattle brand.
“I...” His throat was so dry he sounded like he was talking through a mouthful of sand. “I...I’ll be right back. I just need to...read this.”
He stumbled out of the kitchen.
Noelle called out after him, but he ignored her. In the living room, he bumped right into Sean Reilly, who opened his mouth to greet him, only to get ignored too as Morgan pushed past him without a word.
“Um...okay...” Sean’s dry voice sounded from behind.
It was hard to walk in a straight line, but he managed to make it all the way to the guest room without falling over.
I know this must sound crazy, but I think you might be my father.
He lurched through the door and closed it behind him, and then his legs stopped working and he barely made it to the bed without collapsing. As his ass planted down on the mattress, he gripped his phone like it was a life preserver. He was scared that if he let it out of his sight, the e-mail would disappear.
He took pity on his lungs and drew in a breath, so deep he got a head rush from it. Black dots swam before his eyes, blurring the words on the phone display, and he blinked rapidly to clear his foggy vision.
Once he was able to see again, he peered at the screen and read the rest of the e-mail.
Mr. Morgan,
I know this must sound crazy, but I think you might be my father. My name is Catarina Durand, but my friends call me Cate.
My mother’s name is Ariana Durand. She was born in Paris. So was I, but we moved around a lot and only came back to Paris about ten years ago. I think you met my mother when she lived in Berlin.
I don’t want to get into too many details over e-mail, but I have reason to believe that I’m your daughter. If there’s even the slightest possibility that you think it could be true, please get back to me so we can talk. Please text instead of calling.
—Cate
She’d left a phone number beneath her name.
He stared at it for a full minute.
Shit. He needed a smoke. He needed to think.
Morgan dove off the bed in search of the flannel shirt he’d worn earlier. His cigarettes were in the front pocket, and when he fished out the pack of Marlboros, his fingers shook so hard he could barely pull out a cigarette. He lit up with a silver Zippo lighter and inhaled a desperate drag, remembering at the last second that Noelle had told him not to smoke inside the apartment.
But he didn’t give a shit. He was too wired. Too freaked-out. His mind was running a hundred miles a minute, and his hands continued to shake like flimsy branches in a brisk wind.
Christ, emotions were such an inconvenience. He always tried so hard not to experience them, but at the moment, he couldn’t control the floodgates that had burst open in his chest.
His daughter.
Catarina. But her friends called her Cate.
Could be a trap...
He sucked on his cigarette, pacing the hardwood like a madman. Yes, it could be a trap. He had to consider that possibility. He had to consider all the possibilities before he acted.
Dietrich could be trying to lure him out. Maybe there was no child. Maybe Ariana had died during the ambush, but not before she’d told her father about the pregnancy. Maybe Dietrich was pretending Morgan’s child had survived in the hope that Morgan would care enough about the kid to show his face.
So another assassin could shoot him dead.
Morgan walked over to the window and cranked it open, blowing cloud after cloud of smoke into the air. He was startled to notice that the sun was only now beg
inning to set. It felt like hours since Charron had attacked them, since Kane had called and ordered him to check his e-mail.
As he lit another smoke, he reread the message and slowly absorbed every last word. The details were wrong. Ariana had been born in Berlin, not Paris. She was German, not French.
Had the person who wrote the e-mail simply been reciting what she’d been told? Because if Cate truly was his daughter, there was no way Walther Dietrich would have told her the truth about her family’s background. The girl probably believed every word she’d written.
The erroneous details also made sense if it had been Dietrich who’d sent the e-mail. If Dietrich wanted to make it look like Morgan’s daughter was the sender, he’d certainly pose as a clueless teenager. He’d know that Morgan would never believe Dietrich had confided in a young girl about his criminal past.
So which was it? Had Dietrich written the e-mail, or had it been Cate?
His daughter.
He drew one last burst of nicotine into his lungs, then flicked the cigarette butt out the window and went over to the duffel that was sitting on the floor beside the bed. His breathing was unsteady as he unzipped the bag and pulled out the zippered case where he stashed his burner phones.
He grabbed one of the disposable cell phones and returned to the window, then lit a third cigarette and stared at the phone number Cate had provided him.
She’d asked him not to call, so he didn’t. Instead, he brought up a new text message and...hesitated.
Shit, what the hell should he write? If it was a trap, he couldn’t reveal too much. But if it was his daughter, he couldn’t allow the first contact he had with her to come off as rude and unfeeling.
In the end, self-preservation prevailed. He had to treat it like a trap. There was no other choice.
He typed, “I got your e-mail. Now what?”
He half expected an answering message to pop up the very next second, but that was wishful thinking. The display didn’t change, showing nothing but the message he’d just sent.
He started pacing again, his cigarette now hanging loosely from his fingers.
Jesus. What if this was his daughter?
That would mean...Well, it would mean he had a daughter. A frickin’ daughter. He didn’t even know how to begin wrapping his head around that.
You’ve had seventeen years to do it, idiot.
A hysterical laugh jammed in his throat. The taunting inner voice had a point. You’d think he’d be prepared for it, considering he’d spent years searching for Ariana. Ariana, who’d been pregnant when she disappeared.
He’d had a shit ton of time to accept the idea that he might have a kid out there, but it had always seemed like such an abstract concept.
Now it felt tangible. It felt real.
If it was real.
He stopped pacing, dragged one hand over his scalp. He heard the murmur of voices from somewhere in the apartment, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave the room. Not until he composed himself. Not until he knew whether or not—
The phone beeped in his hand.
He lowered his gaze, and his heart jumped when he saw the response on the screen.
Is this James Morgan?
He leaned against the wall beside the window and sucked in some more nicotine. After a beat, he sent back a reply.
Yes. Is this Catarina?
The next reply was faster this time. Yes, but if you actually read my e-mail like you claim you did, you’d know I don’t go by that name.
There was something defiant about the response, a hint of challenge that brought a faint smile to his lips.
Cate. You go by Cate.
Yes.
That was it. Just yes. Morgan’s chest had just filled with disappointment when the burner phone beeped again.
So am I being crazy, or is there a chance this might actually be true?
He knew what she meant by “this.” As in, him potentially being her father.
Gulping, he flicked the inch of ash atop his cigarette and typed out a response.
If the details you gave me were accurate, then yeah...it might be true.
Then I guess the next step would be for us to meet.
The girl didn’t beat around the bush.
For a second, Morgan experienced a spark of excitement. Anticipation. The prospect of meeting this girl—his daughter—was surreal and wonderful and slightly terrifying.
But then suspicion crept in to overshadow the joy, like an oozing puddle of tar on a white floor, turning everything in its path black.
If Dietrich was attempting to draw him out, then goddamn it, this was the way to do it.
Because no way in hell was Morgan saying no to this girl.
His daughter.
Or not, his internal alarm system warned him.
His fingers were poised to type another response, but a follow-up message from Cate appeared on the screen before he could.
Just so you know, we’ll have to meet on the DL. Might be hard to meet privately because I’m always being watched. But I can try to get away tomorrow?
His brows knitted together. She was always being watched? Why? What the fuck was that bitch Ariana doing to their daughter?
He quickly inhaled a calming breath and responded with: We meet on my terms.
Meaning what?
He could practically see the distrust dripping from each word.
Meaning you follow my instructions to the last letter. Only way we’ll get out of this alive.
Two full minutes passed. He held his breath the entire time, releasing it only when he saw her reply.
Should I be scared?
He wrote, Should I?
That earned him an LOL, followed by, Well, I do have a black belt in jiu-jitsu, so yeah, maybe you should.
Morgan laughed despite himself. Was it possible to glean someone’s personality based on text messages alone? Because he liked this kid a lot.
But maybe he was just being biased.
But it has to be in public. I don’t trust you yet.
Her message stung, but the use of the word “yet” was promising. Besides, he thoroughly appreciated her caution. No kid of his would ever walk blindly into a situation like an oblivious fool.
I’ll contact you in an hour with the details. Message will come from a different number so don’t be alarmed. Delete this number now. And our conversation.
She signed off with: Okay...TTYS.
TTYS...Talk to you soon...
Christ. He’d just had a conversation with his daughter.
Or not, his subconscious reminded him.
Morgan sank down on the bed again because his legs had gotten too weak to support his weight. He knew he needed to come up with a plan, but he was too shaken up to formulate one. He wasn’t sure what to think, what to feel, what to do...He needed...needed to...
He promptly grew light-headed again, dropping his head between his knees just as the door opened and Noelle burst in.
“What the hell is going on?” she demanded.
He weakly lifted his head, and whatever Noelle saw in his eyes seemed to catch her off guard.
“Jim...are you okay?”
“Just peachy.” He suddenly started to laugh, but he had no idea what was so funny.
Noelle approached him as if he were a rabid dog. “This might be a stupid question—but are you on drugs?”
Laughter continued to roll out of him. “Fuck, no.”
“Then why are you acting like a crazy person?”
Out of nowhere, clarity sliced into him, and he rose to his feet feeling clearheaded and alert again.
“Come on,” he told her. “We need to come up with a plan.”
Her delicate blond eyebrows dipped in consternation. “What kind of plan?”
“I have a meeting tomorrow, and I need to make sure that a bunch of psycho contract killers don’t pop up and try to kill me again.” He paused. “And to make sure I’m not walking into a trap.”
“A trap set by whom?”
“Dietrich.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What the hell was in that e-mail, Jim?”
He let out a breath. “Everything.”
“Jesus Christ, must you always be so cryptic? I’m not going out in public and risking my life for you unless you stop talking in code and give me a few more details. Who are you meeting? And I swear to God, if you say Ariana, I’m going to—”
“It’s not Ariana,” he interrupted.
She looked mollified. Slightly. “All right. Then who are you meeting that’s so important you’re willing to stick your neck out for them?”
He looked her square in the eye and said, “My daughter.”
• • •
Almost an hour had passed, and Cate was still staring at her cell phone screen. James Morgan’s messages were still there, undeniable proof that she’d actually had a conversation with the man. She’d read each message a dozen times, trying to get a sense of his personality based on his words, but it was hard. No smiley faces, no LOLs, but maybe that told her everything she needed to know. He was careful. Shrewd. Intelligent, judging by his coherent sentences.
That was a good start.
Meaning you follow my instructions to the last letter. Only way we’ll get out of this alive.
She reread that part two more times, but it still made her apprehensive. Get out of this alive? As in, there was a chance they’d wind up dead?
She forced herself not to dwell on that, and skipped to the end of the conversation. He’d said he’d contact her in an hour. Well, the hour was almost up, and impatience was starting to build in her stomach.
She knew her grandfather would call her down for dinner soon, and she wanted to hear from Morgan before that. Otherwise she’d have to wait even longer before she got to read his response. She knew she’d be squirming in her seat the whole time if she had to sit through an entire meal without her phone.
Fortunately, she was spared any potential agony, because as if on cue, a text message suddenly flashed on her screen, exactly two minutes before the hour.