72

“Sarah Lassiter. Your daughter. Remember me?”

Kenna soaked up her father’s shock, wrapped herself in it, delighted in the slack of his jaw, the pain in his gray eyes, the way the man staggered a step, gripping the back of a striped wing chair. Yeah, she thought. Hurts when someone pulls the rug out, right?

“Sar—” Lassiter’s eyes widened, he stepped toward her, one arm reaching out to her. Then he stopped, took a deep breath. “Sarah? Is that what this—this—photo thing, this hotel thing, this Holly thing—is all about? Why would you threaten me with—?” His chin came up. Wary. “Is your mother behind this?”

Oh, please. Sarah—yes, she’d call herself that now, why not—could not believe this. He was bringing up her mother?

“And you have a little boy?” Owen continued. His voice went soft. “My grandson? Why would you—?”

Sarah burst out laughing, the brittle sound ringing in her ears. Jimmy, the rent-a-kid. She put a hand over her mouth, pressing her lips together. No. She would handle this carefully. Quietly. It would be such fun to tell him everything.

“Why would I?” Sarah raised an eyebrow, enjoying her scorn. “Let me remind you, Governor, of when we last saw each other? I’m not quite sure I remember it exactly, my being, what, two years old? But Mother told us all about it. Again and again. You discarded us. Deserted us. Left us! To—to fend for ourselves while you ran off with…”

Sarah stretched her fingers, tried to keep her voice calm. No need to yell. He’d hear her out. “You were happy. With that other woman? And that’s all that mattered to you.”

“It was, complicated, Kenn—Sarah. More complicated than just…” Owen lowered his arms slowly, his shoulders sagging. “I know I—your mother and I—your brother—is he—?”

“Let me finish,” Sarah interrupted. Had to. “When my mother killed herself—”

Lassiter’s face went white. “She killed herself? Katharine?”

See, that’s just what I mean. “Of course you never knew. You never cared. Not for our mother, not for us.”

A buzzer sounded. Perfect. Sarah hit the black button under Lassiter’s desk.

Lassiter collapsed into the wing chair, pressed his hands together, placed them near his lips. “Kenna. I mean—Sarah,” he said. “I can’t believe you’re sitting there. It’s—it was the most difficult thing I’ve ever done, leaving you both. Please try to forgive me. This picture thing, this hotel thing, this—Holly—is absurd, ridiculous, you know it is. Why don’t we—may I just explain?”

Sarah waved a hand. Let him talk. What could he possibly say?

“Your mother was—well, Katharine screamed. Insisted, demanded, demanded everything. I mean, Moira—wanted you. Wanted to love you both.” His face softened; he searched her eyes. “But you couldn’t have known that, of course.”

Moira? Impossible. He was lying. “Of course,” Sarah said. “But funny, if we were all so lovey-dovey, why did you just—dump us?”

“I never—we didn’t…” He sighed, leaning forward, hands on his knees. “Because I left, your mother got sole custody. I came to visit, again and again. You were just a baby. And Matt a toddler. You couldn’t remember. Then your mother took you—and vanished. Must have changed her name. And yours. To—Kenna Wilkes? She wrote me, said you both hated me. I tried to find you. I did. We did. She must have worked hard at it, to make it so impossible.”

“Oh, I beg you.” Sarah’s eyes burned, so angry, her skin tingled. Her hands clenched into fists, nails jabbing into her palms. “Don’t insult me. You became governor, for God’s sake! You could do anything you wanted! But finding your own children? Simply not on your busy agenda.”

She saw his shoulders flinch, as if she’d tried to hurt him. Well, she had.

Owen stood, reaching out both arms, pleading. “I tried. But your mother told me—well, I wish you could understand how hard I tried. I’ve never forgiven myself. I wish I could make it up to you. What can I do to—?” His hands dropped to his sides.

“Do? Ah. That’s an easy one.” Sarah gestured to the phone. “It’s my turn to take something from you. The only thing you really love. End your campaign, or I’ll end it for you. Your choice. Make the call. Or I—go public with the photos. And oh, so many more. Not to mention—”

“But, Sarah. Why? Now you’re here. We can start over. Isn’t that right? Sarah? And is Matt—?”

“Oh, you remember his name, how charming,” Sarah said. “Just what I was about to mention. I do have some news about him. Which, given the events of the past few days, I’m quite sure will speed your decision. And in fact—”

She paused, then turned toward the open door. Where her older brother, just arrived, now stood. “In fact, let me introduce you, once again, to Matthew Lassiter Galbraith. Who, you may remember, is your son. Perhaps he’ll tell you the news himself.”