“Who mentioned Lydia to you?” he asked.
“She did. She contacted me. Referred to my father as Christopher. Was that his name? Was it?”
Geoffrey’s mouth twisted slightly. “Yes.”
Jaw clenched, Frankie blew a breath out of her nose. “Why lie to me? Why?”
“Be sure you want the answers to these questions, Francesca.” Geoffrey crossed to the little bar. “You won’t like what you hear.”
“The truth can’t be worse than any lie.” Not for Frankie.
“Don’t be so sure of that.” He poured himself a brandy, and she knew he was stalling.
Impatient, Frankie pushed, “Who was my father?”
“His name was Christopher Brooks,” said Geoffrey in that authoritative voice she’d heard him use in court more than once as he sat at his bench, cloaked in a black robe. “He shot himself. But not before strangling your mother to death after stabbing her several times. He killed both her and himself right in front of you.”
Nothing he said could have shocked her more. Nothing. She stood there, frozen, struggling to process his matter-of-fact delivery of such a horrific event. Frankie had grown up believing that her parents—loving, attentive parents who’d been devoted to her and to each other—had died in a car accident. She needed to sit down, but she couldn’t seem to move.
Marcia set her glass on the table. “You were three at the time. We expected to find you terrified when we arrived on pack territory. But you were quiet, subdued. In shock. Naturally we brought you here, away from those animals.”
And she seemed to think that Frankie should applaud her for that.
“You didn’t seem to remember what you saw—as if you’d blocked it out.” Geoffrey took a swig of his brandy. “You’d have nightmares, but you’d never remember them. We let you forget. We gave you a different story. We did it to protect you.”
Protect her? Lying to her all her life sure didn’t feel like “protection.” It wasn’t that she couldn’t understand why they thought they were protecting her when she was just a child; she was just pissed to all hell that she was only finding out now.
She also felt embarrassed. She’d easily believed their story, easily bought their lies. Never once questioned them. Shouldn’t she have sensed the deception? Probably not. It was really only natural that she’d believed them. She’d had no reason to doubt them. Yet she felt disappointed with herself. Humiliated, even.
“What does Lydia want?” demanded Marcia, distaste in her tone. “Money, I’m guessing.”
“To meet,” said Frankie.
Marcia huffed. “Well, she’ll be rather disappointed when you turn her down, won’t she?”
“Her mother’s dying. She’s hoping I’ll pay her a visit so she can see me just once before she passes.”
“In other words, she’s trying to manipulate you with a sob story.” Marcia sniffed. “You will, of course, ignore her attempt to reconnect with you.”
Frankie’s spine snapped straight, and her wolf growled. “Will I?”
Marcia’s eyes went diamond hard. “Yes, you will. They defended him, Francesca. He killed Caroline, but they defended him. Said he must have been drunk or had a moment of madness—like there could be any excuse for what was done to her. They kept questioning you, trying to put words into your mouth, wanting you to say something that would somehow vindicate him. Over and over, you kept saying in a zombielike voice, ‘He hurt her.’”
Hearing footsteps, Frankie looked over her shoulder to see her uncle waltz in. As usual, the accountant was dressed in a tailored suit and wearing a charming smile.
“Frankie, sweetheart, it’s great to see you.” Brad kissed her cheek. “Too beautiful for words.”
“You knew the truth, didn’t you?” Frankie accused him. “You knew they lied about my parents.”
His grin melted away and he swallowed. “How did you find out?”
It was Marcia who answered, each word curt and bitter as she explained the matter to her only son.
Brad rested a hand on Frankie’s arm. “Keeping the truth from you was for the best.”
Frankie shrugged him off. “Best? Best for who, Brad?”
“For who? For you, of course.”
Frankie snorted. She wasn’t a weak, fragile flower; she could have handled the truth. Turning back to her grandparents, she said, “Look, I get why you’d want a child to forget something so traumatic. I understand why you’d rather never speak of what happened. But I’m twenty-seven years old. I’ve been old enough to understand and deal with the truth for a long time. You could have told me at any point. You didn’t. I have the right to know.”
Geoffrey held her gaze steadily—there was no remorse there. “Why hurt you with the truth?”
“The lie hurts too. It makes me wonder what else you’ve lied to me about.”
Geoffrey exhaled heavily. “You’re angry. You have a right to be, I suppose, but I can’t be sorry for doing what I did to spare you pain. Your life isn’t based on a lie, Francesca. We simply didn’t tell you who your real father was or how your mother really died. Would telling the truth have really made such a difference to your life or changed the person you are today?”
Maybe, maybe not. She looked at Marcia and said, “I get it now. I could never quite measure up to your expectations, no matter what I did. You love me, I know that. But you’ve always held a little something back. I’m half shifter. I’m half of the person who killed your daughter. You’ve never been able to truly see all the way past that, have you?”
Marcia’s mouth hardened, but she didn’t confirm or deny it. She didn’t have to.
Brad put his hand on her shoulder and turned her to face him. “Look at me, Frankie. You’re loved deeply and unconditionally by every one of us. You’re hurt and angry and overthinking things. I can understand why—you’ve had one hell of a shock and it’s knocked you off balance. But don’t let that shake your confidence and trust in your family.”
“The wolves want to meet with her,” Marcia snippily announced.
Brad’s eyebrows snapped together. “Why? They were perfectly happy to watch her come live with us. They didn’t fight to keep you, Frankie. Didn’t even try to see you. Contacting you now and messing with your life this way—that’s not right.”
“It doesn’t seem as if Lydia knows that I was lied to,” Frankie told him, stepping back, needing her space.
Brad gave a quick shake of his head. “Doesn’t matter. Everyone knows that shifters are protective of their own, particularly their children. If they’d loved you, they would have fought tooth and nail to keep you. They didn’t. They turned their backs on you. Now you get to do the same thing to them. They’re not good for you, Frankie. You’re better off without them.”
Seething, Frankie clenched her fists. She needed some goddamn air. She spun on her heel and headed for the door.
“You will not meet with those wolves, Francesca. I forbid it.” The whip in Marcia’s voice made her wolf snarl, but Frankie didn’t break stride. She just kept walking.
Outside she slid into her car and let out a long breath. She’d come here hoping her grandparents would assure her that the whole thing was a case of mistaken identity. Honestly, though, she’d have found any denials hard to believe. It just seemed way too coincidental that there would be another shifter called Francesca Newman who had lost her parents and been raised by her human grandparents.
So, yeah, she’d expected to hear that there were plenty of things they hadn’t told her. She hadn’t thought one of those things would be that her father had murdered her mother.
Noticing a blue light flashing in her peripheral vision, she saw that she’d left her cell phone in the cup holder and knew she’d received a notification of some kind. Swiping her thumb across the screen, she wasn’t surprised to see she’d received yet another e-mail from Lydia.
Dear Francesca,
I’m quite sure that you’re the Francesca Newman I’m looking for. I’ve
kept myself updated on your life, watching over you in my way. I don’t understand why you seem confused about who I am, but I hope you will meet with me tomorrow so we can discuss it and I can answer any questions you have.
I will be at the coffeehouse on Cherry Avenue tomorrow at noon. I hope you will be there.
Best regards,
Lydia
Frankie slung her phone back in the cup holder and twisted her key in the ignition. She needed to do some damn research.
A little later she pulled up in her driveway. Inside the house she hooked her jacket over the banister before kicking off her shoes and heading down the hallway. The oak flooring was cool and smooth beneath her feet.
Her wolf was happy to be back in her territory, surrounded by the soothingly familiar scents of lavender, wood, and leather.
In the homey walnut kitchen, Frankie poured herself a glass of red wine. She had a feeling she was going to need it. She sure as hell could have done with one when she’d talked to her grandparents, she thought, as she made her way into the living area. Standing on the soft rug near the fireplace, she stared at the framed photo of her mother that stood on the mantel beside other pictures and keepsakes. What happened that night? Why did it happen?
Frankie took a long gulp of wine and then set the glass on the coffee table. Sinking into the plush sofa, she dragged her cushioned lap tray onto her thighs and then set her laptop on top of it.
Her nearest neighbor was half a mile away; thus she never received complaints about the amount of noise she made while working, and there were no sounds of kids playing, people talking, or loud music filtering through the open window. There was only the ticking of her laptop keys and the hum of the air conditioning.
There were many websites and blogs about shifters, which was how she’d learned so many things about her kind that she wouldn’t have otherwise known. The information had helped her understand her wolf and identify herself as a dominant female. Hopefully, there would also be information to help her understand what happened the night her parents died.
Bringing up the Internet, she typed in “Caroline Newman murder.” Several results popped up, most of which appeared to be articles. She clicked on the first result, which took her to a blog that catalogued crimes committed by shifters. Leaning forward, she read it.
Caroline Newman, a 25-year-old human ex-schoolteacher, was attacked and killed by her mate and wolf shifter, Christopher Brooks, on Bjorn Pack territory in California in May 1993. Brooks stabbed her eleven times in the chest with a Japanese chef knife on their kitchen floor before strangling her to death. Brooks, 30, later shot himself in the temple. The noise alerted pack mates, who raced to the scene. The only witness to the murder was their three-year-old daughter, Francesca, who was too traumatized to provide a statement.
A photo accompanied the article, of Frankie being huddled into her grandparents’ car mere days after the murder.
Below that was a picture of Caroline and Christopher together, happy and smiling like loons. Frankie studied him, took in each of his facial features. She had his eyes, she thought. Had the same slight dent in her chin and the same dimples when she smiled. She wasn’t sure how to feel about that.
Frankie went on to read other articles. There were pictures of her mother in each one—a graduation photo, a picture of her on vacation, and a family shot of Caroline with her parents. There was even one of Caroline and Frankie together.
There was nothing but speculation about what had happened. Some stated that “sources” claimed Christopher had killed Caroline in a jealous rage. Others stated that he’d been out of his mind on a drug that shifters had produced but denied existed. There were those who believed that he’d been mentally ill and suicidal, and he’d only killed Caroline because he’d wanted them to die together.
Some bloggers expressed surprise that a shifter would hurt his mate, while others felt it was only to be expected, considering that “shifters are a few evolutionary steps away from animals.”
Members of the Bjorn Pack had refused to comment. Marcia was quoted several times in various articles, defaming shifters and bad-mouthing the Bjorn Pack. One particular quote was included in several articles: “My daughter was a beautiful person, inside and out. Christopher Brooks took her from us and robbed her of her life—stabbed her, strangled her, and then shot himself like a coward. He robbed their daughter of a mother. He was evil, pure and simple.”
Rubbing her nape, Frankie sank back into her seat. She’d hoped for answers, but now she had yet more questions.
Was it true that Christopher had taken drugs?
Was it possible that he had in fact been mentally unbalanced?
Why had he killed her mother?
And . . . why hadn’t he killed Frankie too?
Wanting to know more about his pack, she punched “the Bjorn Pack California” into the search engine. Again there were plenty of results. Finding a site that seemed dedicated to recording information on wolf packs, she clicked on the link. There was only a brief history of the pack, which was hardly surprising since shifters were highly private and insular. Her mother’s murder was briefly mentioned in connection with the pack. However, the writer of the article seemed more interested in an event that later led the pack to divide.
Allegedly the original Alpha, Rick Coleman, lost a duel to his teenage son, Trey. Instead of stepping aside to allow the teen to rule, Rick banished him. Many supported the banishment. Those who didn’t support it then left with Trey, grouping together to form the Phoenix Pack.
Frankie clicked on the hyperlink that would take her to a page on the Phoenix Pack and found herself intrigued by what she read . . .
Battled with the Bjorn Pack after Trey’s father died and the Beta took the position of Alpha.
Clashed with anti-shifter extremists several times.
Defended a shelter for lone shifters against a pack Alpha.
Suspected to be related to the disappearances of local mobsters.
Frankie wondered if Lydia had been one of the wolves to leave with Trey or if she’d stayed with the Bjorn Pack. Squinting, Frankie looked more closely at the pictures of Phoenix Pack members as they stood outside stores or diners—all had been taken from afar and most likely without the pack’s knowledge. She didn’t see any females who resembled Christopher, but that didn’t really answer the question of whether Lydia was part of the pack.
Hell, nothing Frankie had read really answered any of her questions. Reading what her mother had endured . . . that had been hard. She hated that her mother’s life had been snuffed out. Hated that she’d suffered such pain before she died.
Frankie should also hate Christopher, shouldn’t she? She should despise this person who’d killed her mother and himself right in front of her. But she didn’t. Maybe because none of it seemed real. Maybe because she wasn’t sure how to hate someone she didn’t remember. Maybe because she just couldn’t make sense of it. From everything she knew about shifters, they were loyal, devoted, caring mates who were often irrationally overprotective.
The pieces of the story just didn’t fit. But then, she didn’t know enough about Christopher to really make any assessment about whether he was the sort of person who’d harm someone he loved. She needed to talk to people who had known him.
There would be no point in going back to her grandparents with her queries—they’d either tell her to drop it or feed her more lies. Frankie wanted facts. Even if they told her the truth, their answers would be colored by their own hatred of Christopher. Not that she was likely to get the truth from the wolves. It was highly possible that Lydia’s answers would be colored by her love for Christopher, but there was really no way of knowing without giving the woman a chance. She’d offered to answer Frankie’s questions, hadn’t she? Maybe she’d be honest, maybe she wouldn’t. And, okay, maybe Frankie was curious about her.
Downing the last of her wine, she switched off her laptop and once again stared at the framed photo of Caroline on her ma
ntel. She wondered if her mother would be upset with Frankie for seeking answers—hell, Marcia and Geoffrey would, and they’d no doubt see her meeting with Lydia as a betrayal. But Frankie didn’t view it as a betrayal. In her opinion it was perfectly natural that she’d want some answers and to know about her past.
This was her life; she was entitled to know every part of it. And if her maternal family couldn’t accept that, well, it wouldn’t be the first time that they’d disapproved of her choices. Still, she didn’t relish the idea of going head-to-head with the people who’d raised her. Loved her.
But they never really accepted you, a little voice in her head whispered.
Frankie couldn’t argue with it. And then another voice was playing in her head—a voice that wasn’t her own.
“You will not meet with those wolves, Francesca. I forbid it.”
Frankie scowled at Marcia’s words. Forbid it, huh? That was so the wrong thing to say to a dominant female wolf.
CHAPTER THREE
Sitting in the coffeehouse, Trick set down his half-empty mug. Around him were the murmur of voices, the clattering of dishes, the whir of blenders, and the ding of the cash register. The place was nice. Cozy. It was also busy as hell.
He stared out the large glass window, keeping a lookout for Francesca. It was almost noon, but there was no sign of her.
Cam laid a hand over Lydia’s, stilling her tapping fingers. “Breathe, you’re going to be fine.”
Leaning forward, Lydia braced her elbows on the round bistro table and took a centering breath. “I don’t know why I’m so nervous.”
“Of course you’re nervous,” said Trick. “You want it to go well. This is important to you.”
“If she didn’t initially know the truth about her paternal family, I’m guessing her grandparents will have told her everything by now.” Lydia worried her lower lip. “She might not want anything at all to do with us.”
“If that’s the case, we’ll find out soon enough,” said Ryan. He and Trick had accompanied Lydia and Cam for their protection. And, yes, because Trick was curious to see how Frankie had turned out.
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