Behind the Shadows

by Potter, Patricia;

  “Max, just consider it. My riding instructor says I’m a natural in the show ring. She says I’m ready to start jumping.”

  He hesitated. “Jumping is dangerous. You know how you—”

  “I’ll be very careful,” she broke in eagerly. “I won’t take chances.”

  “If you get hurt again …”

  Her face clouded. “My instructor says I have a real talent, Max. A real feel for the horse. I’m a good rider. I really am.”

  “I know you are. I’ve watched you.”

  She looked surprised, and he kicked himself. Ed Westerfield never praised her for anything. Neither had Max. Perhaps he’d picked up more from the old man than he’d thought. He cleared his suddenly thick throat and continued, “You’re good at most things you do. You just don’t stay interested very long. And I know how you feel about hospitals and …”

  “I won’t get hurt. The … car is just as dangerous, and I drive.”

  But not easily. He knew how long it had taken for her to learn to drive. She still didn’t like it, and after the accident, he didn’t blame her. He also knew from Mrs. Baker about the nightmares that didn’t go away, and the way her face stiffened when she had a doctor’s appointment.

  “I’m ready,” she persisted. “My instructor says this jumper is perfect. Well trained and gentle. I’m not rushing into this, Max. I’ve become familiar with horse people. You know I’m chairing the South Atlanta Regional Horse Show.”

  He knew that, too. Westerfield Industries was a sponsor. And that, he thought cynically, was exactly why she was asked to chair the committee. Yet she probably would be good at it. Her problem had never been lack of brains. It had been lack of confidence. If she didn’t succeed in something immediately, she abandoned it. Though she would deny it forever, her grandfather had instilled a deep sense of inadequacy in her. It had led her into one very bad marriage, almost into a second, and into some terrible investments.

  After buying off one husband and then a husband-to-be, Ed Westerfield put most of his fortune into an unbreakable trust for his only grandchild. She would receive the bulk of the money if and when she took a responsible place in Westerfield Industries or married someone who met Max’s approval. She’d reached neither requirement. Until then she was on an allowance. A healthy one, but not enough to buy a $50,000 horse.

  Max hated the promise he’d made to the old man when he was dying. At the same time, he knew how susceptible Leigh was to someone who pretended to care about her. She’d never truly been loved, and she hungered for it. He sympathized to some extent, but now he just wanted to say, “Get over it.” He sure as hell had.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “Six months. If you still want this, then we’ll talk about it again.”

  “Samara will be sold by then,” she protested.

  “There will be other horses.”

  Anger and disappointment clouded her face. She changed the subject. “What about Seth? Will you give him a contribution?”

  He should have known that was coming. Hell, it probably had been her first goal. Make a request she knew he would refuse, and he would feel obligated to grant the second.

  Good God, he was tired of saying no. He wished Ed Westerfield had just given her the money rather than establishing the damned trust and conning him into being trustee with a strict list of rules.

  “Westerfield Industries doesn’t give contributions,” he said, citing the old man’s philosophy. “You give something to one politician, then all the vultures descend. As an industry doing business with the state and U.S. governments, we can’t single out one lawmaker or one party. You know that.”

  “This is different. He’s a Westerfield. Family. People will understand that.”

  “He’s a politician first.”

  “Dammit,” she exploded. “It’s not fair. He and David should have gotten more of the inheritance. Grandfather just wanted to bend everyone to his will and when he couldn’t, he cut them off.”

  “True,” Max admitted. “But you have a big allowance. You can contribute.”

  “I already have. The max.” She lifted her chin. “I don’t know why you’re still his lackey. He’s dead.”

  “I make promises, I keep them. It’s my one virtue.”

  “And you believe you owe him,” she said angrily. “That’s bunk, and you know it. He got far more from you than he ever gave. All those years you did every nasty little chore. Hatchet man. That’s all you were to him.”

  “Probably,” Max said. “If you think that bothers me, you’re wrong.”

  “You would have to be human to be bothered,” she said, turned around, and marched out of the room.

  True. He had lost his humanity when he was ten years old. A succeeding series of foster homes erased any remaining remnants. He’d resolved then never to be a victim again.

  He leaned back in his chair. It was in his freshman year in college when he’d caught Westerfield’s eye while he was a janitor in the Westerfield office building. He was caught reading Plato when he should have been scrubbing floors.

  Ed Westerfield had questioned him at length, then become his mentor as well as employer. On his part, Max had made sure he became indispensable to his boss. When he graduated at the head of his business school class, Westerfield paid his tuition to Georgia State University Law School and slowly moved him up the ladder to corporate attorney.

  The price had been complete dedication and loyalty. Whatever the old man wanted, he got. Didn’t matter if Max found it distasteful. He was Westerfield’s man.

  Still was. Even two years after his death.

  As Westerfield had known he would be.

  Leigh was now his albatross.

  The phone rang and he snatched it to his ear. His secretary had instructions not to disturb him unless it was about a state contract he was finalizing for the company.

  He switched his mind to a different frequency.

  The contract crowded out everything else.

  The results of the new DNA test were the same as the initial ones. Kira could not be her mother’s biological daughter. Couldn’t be any relation.

  She weighed her options now. The enormity of someone’s error three decades ago was mind-numbing, and she had to act carefully. The news could kill her mother. She was that fragile.

  There were no more straws left to grab. She had to find out what had happened thirty-two years ago. She had to discover the identity of her mother’s genetic daughter. She had to convince that person to donate a kidney to Katy Douglas. And she had to do it within a few weeks.

  The physician looked at her sympathetically, even more so than before. She knew he believed that her mother had lied to her, that she was adopted, but she knew otherwise. She’d already decided that her next step was to request her mother’s medical records from the hospital. She had her mother’s power of attorney, and that should give her access.

  “I’ll try to get your mother moved to the top of the list,” Dr. Warner said. “A kidney might be available at any time.”

  She merely nodded. She knew the odds. So many different factors were involved: compatibility, location, need. Although her mother was critically ill, someone might be a little bit more ill.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know how much you wanted to do this.”

  “Thank you,” she said. All she wanted now was to leave.

  She had much to do. And the first was a visit to the hospital records department.

  4

  Two precious days gone, and Kira had little to go on.

  She was tempted to take time off, but she’d taken vacation when her mother had worsened four weeks ago, and she wanted to keep her remaining week for the transplant.

  There would be a transplant. There had to be.

  The how and why of two babies being switched thirty-two years ago didn’t matter as much—at this time—as finding her mother’s daughter. The need for a kidney superseded everything else. Maybe later she would think about a lawsuit to p
ay off her mother’s growing medical bills.

  She’d put together a list of babies born at the hospital on November 12, 1976. Births were a matter of public record, but it had still been difficult getting them. She had to go through several bureaucratic layers.

  Twenty-one names. She didn’t have the time to check them all out. Not with making her mother think everything was normal as well as tending to a job she loved, and badly needed.

  Pain ripped through her, more agonizing than before. For the first time in her life, she wasn’t certain who she was. Who was her natural mother? Her father? Were they still alive?

  And her mother’s blood daughter. Who was she? Where was she?

  She’d been operating on robot mode, unable to think beyond the next step. Now she knew she needed help. She didn’t have time to do her own investigating. Yet she didn’t know where to turn.

  There were friends at the paper, but then she would have to tell the entire story. She wasn’t ready to do that.

  No, she needed professional help. An investigator who could devote full time to finding … her mother’s daughter.

  Chris Burke!

  The name kept intruding in her thoughts. She’d pushed it away, because she always hated to ask for help. One trait inherited from her mother.

  Another shock ran through her. Not inherited. Taught. You take care of yourself. You don’t ask for help. Her mother lived by that motto. She’d always refused to take government assistance or food stamps. Instead, she’d worked ten and twelve hours a day cleaning occupied houses and cleaning out unoccupied ones. She’d taken Kira with her to do the latter, carting a portable playpen with her.

  She’d finally started her own small house-cleaning business, hiring four other people. But Katy Douglas—and Kira, too—often filled in when one of the cleaners had an emergency. Kira still did the bookkeeping and was trying to keep the business going during her mother’s illness.

  Chris Burke. Chris Burke. The name pounded at her. Maybe he was her only option.

  Chris Burke was a former police lieutenant who quit his job when his wife was diagnosed with terminal cancer. The Burkes had been one of Katy Douglas’s customers, and Kira’s mother had often sat with Risa Burke when her husband had to be gone.

  Both Katy and Kira had attended the funeral. Chris had told them that if he could ever reciprocate for her mother’s kindness, he would. She also knew that after his wife’s death, he’d opened a small investigative agency.

  Katy Douglas’s Clean Sweep still cleaned the house, although only once every two weeks.

  Kira didn’t think he knew of her mother’s illness. Rene cleaned his house. Rene, one of their most dependable cleaners, lived near the Burke home and had taken over when Katy Douglas had slowed down.

  Maybe he would help her on the cheap. Perhaps he would take five years of cleaning in payment.

  She dug in her purse and found her cell. A call to information, then the number of the Burke Investigative Agency. She crossed her fingers and prayed.

  Leigh sat across from her cousins, Seth Westerfield and David Crawford. The three of them had grown up together. They had bonded through their common war against Ed Westerfield.

  Seth was a state senator running for Congress, and David was a pediatrician like his father. They tried to meet at least once a month. None of the three had siblings, and they had all had difficult childhoods, so they made one another their family.

  Seth said it was because of the genes that so few Westerfields were born. David said it was bad luck. Whatever it was, it seemed reproduction was not a Westerfield quality.

  David regarded her thoughtfully. “You look good.”

  “I feel good. I like riding. I enjoy working with the horse show. I’ve had some marketing ideas the committee actually liked.”

  “Good for you, Cous,” Seth said. “Maybe I should have grabbed you first for my campaign.”

  A surge of enthusiasm ran through Leigh. She’d donated to Seth’s campaign, but he’d said nothing about her doing more. She knew she was considered the family screwup. Her grandfather certainly had told her that in no uncertain terms.

  “I can help with that, too,” she said eagerly.

  “Great. Come to the office tomorrow.”

  David leaned back in his chair. “What am I? Chopped liver?”

  “You’re too busy,” Seth said with a grin. “But I’ll take money from your doctor, friends.”

  “Good luck with that,” David replied. “But I’ll host a small party at home. Em would love it.”

  “I’ll help her,” Leigh said. “Between the two of us, we can pry some money away. Maybe Max will contribute more, but you know how hard it is to get ten cents from him.”

  Seth’s grin tightened. “I doubt it.”

  “Well, you did better than I did. He won’t buy the horse I want.”

  “You should consider suing him,” Seth said. “It’s your money.”

  “He’ll give in. Eventually,” she said.

  “When do you want this little soiree?” David interrupted.

  “As soon as possible. My opponent—the bastard—is self-financing his campaign.”

  “But you have the party behind you.”

  “Most of it. Others just see the money signs for other candidates.”

  “Hell, everyone knows you. Likes you.”

  Seth’s grin returned. “You’re right. We’ll win. Money only takes you so far, and he really is a bastard.”

  “And we’ll help,” Leigh said. “One for all, and all for one.”

  With that, the three lifted their glasses and toasted the pact they’d made when they were teenagers.

  Chris Burke opened the door of his home and gave Kira a grin. Archie, a mongrel dog of undeterminable origin, frantically waved his tail in welcome.

  “Archie remembers you,” he said. “Come in.”

  She followed him inside. She’d been in the house several times, including two visits when she took over a dish her mother had prepared for Risa. During Risa Burke’s last month, she’d had little appetite. One of the very few things she could tolerate was Katy Douglas’s macaroni and cheese.

  Kira’s gaze followed him as he led the way into his office just off the living room. He was solidly built without an ounce of fat and he moved with assurance. She sat in a chair facing the desk, and he sat on the corner of the desk. Archie plopped down next to his feet.

  “Thanks for meeting me,” she said.

  “I have a cubbyhole in an office park,” he said. “The tenants have a common secretary and share a boardroom. Good place to meet with prospective clients, but I do a lot of work here.”

  “Archie probably appreciates it.”

  “Yeah. He misses Risa. You said it was important,” he said gruffly, obviously trying to hide his sudden emotion. “What can I do for you?”

  “It’s Mom. She’s seriously ill.”

  His face expressed shock. “Katy?”

  She nodded. “Kidney failure. Mom didn’t want anyone to know. She swore her employees to secrecy. She said she feared losing business, but I think it was mostly to avoid sympathy. She never liked being the center of attention.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Her only hope is a kidney transplant, but the list is unbelievably long. I wanted to give a kidney, but …” She stopped. Putting it all into words made it even more real. She realized that even now she didn’t want to believe the fact she was not Kira Douglas.

  “But?” he asked softly after a pause.

  Kira had always liked him. Now she knew why. His face was creased with concern, his brown eyes warm and sympathetic. Maybe on the job, he was different. Maybe she just knew him through the prism of his wife’s illness. He had been loving, and kind and caring to her.

  “This is confidential, isn’t it?” she asked. “Completely?”

  “Unless you’re about ready to commit a crime.”

  “My mother can’t know what I’m about to tell you. Not yet. Not
until I say.”

  He was silent for a moment. “Okay,” he finally agreed.

  “Another baby and I were switched at birth.” She blurted out the words and realized she’d bottled them up inside. She’d been living with them nearly three days now, and not another soul knew. Not even the doctor who still believed that she’d been adopted.

  His eyes didn’t show anything. Not surprise. Not shock. “Why do you think that?” he asked.

  “Three blood tests say I can’t be her daughter.”

  “There’s adoption.”

  “No,” she said. “I would have known.”

  To his credit, he didn’t look as if he doubted that statement. Instead, he waited. She wondered if that was how he interrogated suspects. Patient waiting.

  She told the story in as few words as possible, how her mother had told her about her birth. The search for a surgeon. The miracle baby. “You know my mother,” she said. “She doesn’t have a deceitful bone in her body. If I had been adopted, she would have told me, just as she told me about my father. She’s an optimist, but she never sugarcoats the truth.”

  “That means that if there was a switch, it must have happened immediately,” he said. “A critically ill baby would be immediately known to all the pediatric staff,” he said after a moment.

  She nodded.

  “Have you gone to the hospital authorities with this?”

  “Not until I’m sure of my facts, and I definitely don’t want it leaked to the news media. Mom watches the news programs.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Twenty-one babies were born that day. Thirteen were girls. I want you to find which one might be her daughter.”

  “Then what?”

  “I’ll find a way to confirm it.”

  “It would be simpler to go to the hospital.”

  “There’s a giant liability here,” she said. “The hospital management will stonewall at first. There will probably be denial, then a long-term investigation. Publicity will get out. Mom doesn’t have that kind of time, nor can she stand the publicity. If I can find that person first and talk to her …”