by Rita Herron
“And your own?”
“Yes…” She looked away. “I have to know about her family, the reason she gave me away. About my father.”
The real reason she couldn’t leave. Her need to investigate her parentage had driven her this far. It was an obsession that would keep driving her.
But would it drive her straight into her own grave?
Melissa checked her watch. “Now, Eric, relax in the whirlpool. I have another patient to see.”
He glanced at the door and noticed a man in his mid-fifties wheeling toward her. The young candy striper had commented that the patient was a war vet who’d lost his leg to diabetes. Melissa was helping him learn to adjust to the prosthetic leg.
But Eric couldn’t let her leave yet. “Promise me one thing.”
“What?” She folded her arms across her chest, and he remembered the feel of her against his body. His sex hardened, began to ache. The sensations spurred his determination to walk even more. Her gaze caught his sudden arousal, and she shifted, ignoring his reaction, while he lowered himself into the water.
“Promise me that you won’t go to the Latone woman’s house by yourself.”
“Eric—”
“Promise me,” he insisted. “It’s too dangerous, Melissa.” He trapped her with his eyes. “Besides, if the police find you snooping alone, they might think you’ve returned to the scene of the crime to hide something from them.”
He saw her waver, realize he was right. She finally nodded, although her frown spoke volumes. “I’ll see if Helen will ride out there with me.”
“No. I’ll go.”
“Eric—”
“Don’t insult me again by suggesting that I might not be able to help because I’m in this chair.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but her next patient rolled toward her and prevented her reply.
GUILT NIGGLED AT ERIC for misleading Melissa. He wanted to accompany her to protect her, but he also needed to wheedle any information out of her he could. If Candace Latone had been connected to CIRP or Hughes in any way, the connection might be hidden somewhere in the past she’d so obviously tried to bury.
How Melissa played into that was anybody’s guess, but a few possibilities raced through his mind, none of which he hoped were true. All of which might prove dangerous to her.
By tagging along with her, he could ensure her safety and explore those possibilities.
His chat with Fox had proved enlightening, as well. Fox relayed the details of the memory transplant experiment the doctors had performed on him, and suggested that the center was working on other experimental brainwashing techniques, possibly in conjunction with the government. He suspected a contact in the FBI was overseeing the project with the intentions of using the techniques in warfare.
A very likely probability, Eric thought. But what exactly did the experiments entail?
He ate an early dinner at the cafeteria where he noticed Ian Hall, the new CEO, eating with Wallace Thacker, the chemist who’d recently come on board at CIRP. One of the men might be Hughes. But which one?
So far Ian Hall had remained low-key, avoiding the press and extra media attention. He’d held one press conference that stated his mission for CIRP was to expunge the negative publicity surrounding the center and build it into the greatest research facility in the world. The reason he’d brought in Thacker. More renowned scientists from around the world would follow. A bone specialist named Steve Crayton had also been hired, but his age and body build didn’t fit Hughes’s profile.
Melissa met him just as he finished his coffee. “I’m going now.”
“Don’t you want to eat first?”
She flattened a hand over her stomach. “I’m not hungry. I’ll grab something later.”
He trailed her to the door.
“Eric, are you sure about this?”
He nodded. Hall was watching them, so Eric made a mental note to talk to the man the next day.
Melissa walked to the passenger side of her Camry and started to open the door, but he shook her hand off. “I can do it myself.”
A small smile played on her mouth. “All right.”
Using his upper-body strength, he hauled himself over to the seat, reached out and began to fold the chair. Melissa stood watching patiently, then stored it in the trunk of the car.
Leaving the confines of the center and the chair invigorated him. He almost felt normal. As if he was a man on a date with a beautiful woman for the night.
Until they turned onto the street leading to Candace Latone’s house, and he saw the yellow crime-scene tape enveloping the house. Melissa’s harsh intake of breath cemented reality.
This was not a date for either of them. He was on a mission, and she had come to learn about the woman who’d abandoned her shortly after her birth.
He couldn’t forget it, either.
NERVES FLUTTERED in Melissa’s stomach as she parked the car and handed Eric the wheelchair. Thankfully, Candace’s small cottage had been built on flat ground, eliminating the need for steps. Even though Eric was in a wheelchair, she felt safer simply having him along.
The man’s voice from the phone call the night before echoed in her mind.
She would not allow him to scare her. And if her mother had been killed because of Melissa’s search, she wanted the killer caught.
The sound of the ocean breaking on the shore filled the night, along with the scent of the marsh and Candace’s flowers. Eric followed her to the door, waiting behind her.
“It’s locked?” Eric asked.
Melissa jiggled the door and nodded. “I’ll go around and check the back and windows.”
“There’s no need,” Eric said. “I’m sure the police secured the premises when they left. Do you have a credit card?”
She nodded and removed a Visa card from her purse. Within seconds, he unlocked the door.
“We could get arrested for breaking and entering, Eric. And I am a suspect.”
“That’s true.” He paused. “We don’t have to go in.”
“I know.” She hesitated. “But I have to learn more about Candace.” He offered no explanation about his breaking-in skills, either, and she quickly forgot the question when the scent of death assaulted her.
Melissa reached for the overhead light, but Eric shook his head. “It might arouse suspicion to the neighbors.”
She nodded, and dropped her hand, scanning the small living area. Through the haze of filtered moonlight from the sliding-glass doors, she noticed fingerprint dust on the pine end table, saw the chalky line and tape marking the floor where Candace’s body had been found. The furniture was sparse and simple. A dark green leather sofa, white-pine coffee table and end tables, fresh flowers in a crystal vase on the glass-top kitchen table in the corner eating nook. Flowers from Candace’s own yard. They were already wilting.
She would take fresh flowers to her grave.
A small desk occupied the corner near the sliding-glass doors. On the opposite side, a narrow hall led to what she assumed was the bedroom and bath. Eric parked himself by the sofa and remained silent while she walked into the kitchen.
“I know it’s silly,” she said quietly as she rummaged through the cabinets, “but I want to see her dishes, her clothes, anything that might tell me something about her.”
“It’s not silly,” Eric said, his voice slightly throaty. “Details reveal a lot about a person.”
She removed a handcrafted colorful mug, then turned it over to study the bottom. “It has her initials carved on the bottom. I wonder if she made this herself.”
“It’s a possibility.” Eric gestured toward a whimsical painting on the wall, a watercolor of the ocean and colorful sea creatures in a world of muted blues. “Her signature’s on this painting, too.”
“She was an artist.” Melissa studied the painting. “She was actually pretty good. I wonder if she ever sold any of her work.”
“You could check local galleries.”
“Maybe I will.” She glanced at the bedroom. “I’m going to look around in there.”
He nodded. “I’ll wait here.”
She offered him a watery smile, grateful he understood that she needed some privacy, and walked into the bedroom. More paintings adorned the walls, some swatches of bright colors, full of animation and light. Others were dark, gray, moody shadows of another side of Candace that must have reflected her mental instability.
So far she’d seen no sign of her mother’s needlework, that she might have crocheted the tiny cap that belonged to Melissa.
She opened the wooden chest at the foot of the bed and looked inside, hoping it held knitting yarn or crochet hooks and patterns, but linens filled the chest instead. Disappointed, she pivoted to the closet, opened the door and studied Candace’s clothes. Like the paintings, her closet held a hodgepodge of bright colors and casual sundresses, capri pants and blouses, then a contrasting selection of dark, drab shirts and black slacks. A hatbox that had been pushed way back on the top shelf drew her eye, and she removed it, then sat on the edge of the corner rocker to survey the contents.
A handful of old letters, scribbled in near-illegible handwriting lay inside. Melissa felt as if she was violating Candace’s privacy by touching them, but she couldn’t stop herself.
Had the police searched these things? Read her letters?
She skimmed the first one.
Dear Baby,
I miss you so much. Today would have been your first birthday. I wonder if you’re walking now, and talking, if you’re calling another woman Mama. You’re probably in a better place, but I miss you so. I had the nurse bring me a cupcake today with a candle in it, and I lit the candle and sang “Happy Birthday” to you, my angel. Then I closed my eyes and wished that I would see you again. Maybe one day soon, if I ever leave this place…
Love,
Your mama
Melissa swiped at the tears running down her cheeks. Had Candace written the letter to her?
And if she’d intended to find her baby when she was released from the hospital, why had she never followed through?
WHILE MELISSA LOOKED around in the bedroom, Eric rolled over to the desk. Black and Fox had no doubt searched the contents, but he’d check it out himself in case they missed something.
The top drawer contained insurance papers, bills, all the mundane pieces of a person’s life. The second drawer held colorful pens and stationery, along with a book on calligraphy. He shuffled through the third drawer, discovering several sketches of the ocean and sea creatures, then a box of old photos. A quick glance revealed pictures of seashells, birds, another slice of her artistic personality come alive.
No family or photos of a loving dad, a boyfriend or a baby.
He stuffed the box back into the drawer; then noticed a lone picture wedged between the back of the drawer and the edge of the desk.
Curious, he yanked the photo free and held it up to the light. The picture captured the image of five men standing side by side, all in front of the original Savannah Hospital twenty-plus years ago. Eric recognized Sol Santenelli and Arnold Hughes from the photos the Feds had shown him. The third man wore an army uniform. The fourth man resembled the current CEO of CIRP, although Hall supposedly had no former ties to Hughes.
Hall was definitely not Hughes resurfaced. But he had obviously known him.
The fifth man was Robert Latone, meaning Latone also had ties with Hughes early on.
He searched the desk again, and discovered a second photo trapped between the wooden edges. He released it, swallowing hard at the sight of Hughes and Candace Latone together, Hughes’s arm draped affectionately around Candace’s shoulders.
Candace had supposedly been involved in a research experiment at the center when she’d become pregnant. And she’d known Hughes. Had they been involved?
Could Hughes possibly be Melissa’s father?
Chapter Seven
Eric’s imagination had run away with him. Melissa’s father could have been any one of a hundred men. In order to pinpoint his identity, he’d have to investigate all the men Candace might have been involved with. And if she’d gotten pregnant through a sperm donor, as had Simon’s surrogate mother, the possibilities were endless and would require DNA checking as well as an investigation into the experimental project at the time.
Which was an entirely different case.
Yet, if Melissa was Hughes’s daughter, he could use her to get to Hughes….
No, he couldn’t even contemplate such a possibility.
Melissa entered the room, the misery in her eyes wrenching his gut. She was an innocent in this situation, had searched for her mother only to find her dead. How would she feel about a cold-blooded murderer like Hughes fathering her?
Deciding to explore the possibility before turning her already fragile world upside down with his suspicions, he slid the picture he’d found in Candace’s desk into his pocket.
Melissa cleared her throat. “You were looking through the desk?”
“Just trying to help.”
She fidgeted with her fingers. “Did you find anything?”
He shook his head. “More art supplies. What about you?”
She nodded. “Some old letters.”
“Did they confirm that Candace was your mother?”
Her lip trembled as she nodded. “Candace wrote them to her baby. She…missed me and wanted me back.”
Eric’s heart squeezed with compassion—and guilt over lying to her. He held out his hand to comfort her, but she shrugged it away. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
He nodded and followed her to the car. If Candace was Melissa’s mother, had she given her away out of choice or had someone forced her to?
MELISSA’S HEART THROBBED as she drove back to Skidaway Island. All her life she’d ached for her mother, wondered where she was and why she hadn’t wanted her. Now, to realize her mother had wanted Melissa, had celebrated her birthdays, was a blessing. Yet it intensified the sadness.
She had been so close to meeting Candace, to being reunited. If she’d only arrived at the house a few minutes earlier, she might have been able to save Candace.
Eric laid a hand over hers. “Are you all right?”
No, she wasn’t all right. “I…just need some time alone.”
“I can understand that.” Hadn’t he wanted to shut himself away from everything and everyone after the explosion?
She parked in front of his cabin, then hopped out to retrieve his chair. He unfolded it, slid onto the seat, then looked up at her. “Are you sure you want to be alone? We could talk.”
Determined not to break down and cry in front of him, she shook her head. “Thanks, but I’m pretty tired. And you need some rest, too.”
His mouth tightened.
“Thanks for going with me, Eric. I appreciate it.”
He nodded, but hesitated as if he wanted to say more. As if he wanted more.
She remembered the fiery kiss they’d shared the night before and craved another. But she felt so fragile and in need of comfort. If she relented to one kiss, she might lose control and succumb to more. Starting a relationship, even a short-lived one, definitely wouldn’t be fair to Eric.
Besides, she couldn’t allow herself to rely on anyone, especially a man with problems of his own. So, she said good-night, then climbed into her car alone.
When she pulled up to her cottage, a black limousine was parked in the driveway. For a moment, she remembered the threatening caller the night before. But if her visitor meant her harm, why arrive in something as conspicuous as a limousine?
Still, she removed her cell phone from her purse and held on to it as a safety net. The limo’s door opened, a driver exited and opened the back door. An austere, tall, gray-haired man in a dark pin-striped suit emerged. He had a broad angular face with wide cheekbones and a neatly trimmed beard. His demeanor immediately suggested wealth and power. “Miss Fagan?”
She climbed out of
the car, but remained in close proximity to the door. How had he known her name? “Yes.”
“My name is Robert Latone. Are you the woman who discovered my daughter’s body?”
Melissa swallowed. This man was Candace’s father?
That would make him her grandfather.
“Yes.”
“May I come in and talk to you for a moment?”
Melissa’s breath caught, but she nodded, then walked up the driveway and opened the door. The driver slid back into the car to wait, and Robert Latone followed her, his clipped steps on the sidewalk echoing like a soldier’s measured pace.
When they entered, she gestured toward the sofa. He declined and shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. A play on power she assumed. She’d dealt with men and power issues in her foster-care homes before. She hadn’t caved then, and she wouldn’t now. Even if this man was her grandfather.
“Would you like some coffee? Tea?”
“No, thank you. This isn’t exactly a social visit.”
“I see.” Animosity radiated from him in waves. She claimed a wing chair, forcing herself to make eye contact. Did he know she thought Candace was her mother?
“Tell me what you saw at my daughter’s cottage.”
“I already gave a full report to the police, Mr. Latone.”
“You didn’t see her killer?”
“No.”
“What exactly did you see?”
“The door was open, so I went in. It was getting dark. I noticed the curtains fluttering in the breeze, the sliding-glass door was ajar. Then I saw m…her body.” She paused, the images darting back in horrid snippets. “She was already dead.”
“What did you do then?”
“I called 911, but someone attacked me from behind.” She pressed a hand to her chest, the horror returning. “When I regained consciousness, the paramedics and police were there.”
His thin lips creased downward. “My daughter didn’t have many friends, Miss Fagan. How did you know her?”
Melissa twisted her hands in her lap, then realized he’d noticed and would read the movement as a sign of weakness, so she fisted them instead. “I didn’t, we never met.”