Not Claire Dellamare.
“I’m not Claire.” The constriction grew in her chest as the sheriff and his deputy stared at her. “Who am I, Luke?”
His fingers pressed her arm. “We don’t know much yet, honey. Let’s wait for the results of the DNA tests to come back. Maybe the sheriff is wrong about the dental records. After all, you were a child, so there might have been very similar X-rays for another child.”
The sheriff loomed over her. “You’re grasping at straws.” Perspiration dotted his forehead, and he swiped at it, his hand shaking.
Why was he so upset when he’d basically told her that her entire life was a lie? Then she saw the reason for his agitation. Her father’s raised voice was enough to scare the little orca right back out to sea. His pants were covered in sand, and his hair stood up on end as though he’d raked his hand through it.
He pointed his finger at the sheriff. “I got your ridiculous message. You can’t possibly think I wouldn’t know my own daughter! And you think my wife was in on the collusion? Next I suppose you’ll say we murdered the real Claire and put someone else in her place. I’m calling my lawyer. I won’t stand for this!”
Claire hadn’t thought through the implications. Her father was right. If there was one thing she was certain of, it was that her mother would defend her to the death. She might have her own ideas about how Claire’s life ought to go, but it was only because she loved her so much. If someone had brought another child to her and insisted she was Claire, her mother would have seen through that in a heartbeat.
The sheriff had to be wrong. The dental records were wrong.
Luke still held her, and she wished she could put her face against his chest and ignore the world. Unfortunately, she would have to bring calm to this chaos.
She brushed the sand from her legs, then pushed her hair out of her face, realizing her hair was nearly dry. Over Luke’s shoulder, she saw Francisca was here too. Mom sat on a large rock off to one side of the melee. Her hands covered her face, and her shoulders shook with the ferocity of her sobs. Francisca stood beside her with her hand on Mom’s shoulder. Claire caught Francisca’s worried gaze and smiled to let her know things would be all right.
“I need to reassure my mom.”
Luke glanced toward the two women. “I’ll try to calm your dad. He’s about to strangle the sheriff.”
“I just might join him.” She pressed her lips together and walked across the rocks.
Francisca’s hair was still damp as if she’d been called while in the shower, and she wore black workout shorts and a tank. Her anxious gaze lingered on Claire’s face. “You’re very pale, Claire. I think you’d better sit down.”
“Claire?” Her mother dropped her hands and wobbled to her feet. She grasped Claire by the shoulders and pulled her tight against her chest. “Oh, Claire, it’s awful what they’re saying! Just terrible. The sheriff seems to think we might have killed that poor little girl in the field and had you take her place. Where could he get such an insane idea?”
Claire closed her eyes and inhaled the aroma of her mother’s Hermès perfume and coconut body wash. The scent made her wish she could be a little girl and climb into her mother’s lap for a good cry. Her back stiffened and she pulled back gently. Nothing could be gained by avoiding this.
“I need to ask you about the day I was returned to you, Mom. I want to be sure in my own head what happened. How did you know it was me? I’d been gone a year. Children change so fast.”
Her mother’s fingers tightened on Claire’s shoulders as though she was going to clutch at her again, then her shoulders sagged and her arms dropped back to the sides of her slim-fitting black sundress. “You’d changed, of course. Grown a bit taller, and you had a Maine accent.” Her smile broke out. “It was quite cute, to tell you the truth, but I had to hire a speech therapist to get your accent back to normal.”
Claire’s mom was a master at changing the subject to avoid a topic that made her uncomfortable, but Claire couldn’t afford to let her get off on a tangent. “About my appearance. Was there anything at all that gave you pause? Anything that suggested I might not be your daughter?”
Her mother picked at a nail and didn’t look at her. The wind teased wisps of blond hair loose from her French twist. “Nothing important. I knew as soon as I saw your big blue eyes.”
Claire glanced at Francisca, who had straightened and widened her eyes. “What did you see that you thought was unimportant?”
Her mother finally looked up with an almost guilty expression. She swiped the hair from her eyes and bit her lip. “It was so minor that it’s ludicrous to bring it up now, Claire.” She eased back onto the rock and clasped her hands together on her knee. “I really should calm your father down so we can get back to the hotel for dinner.”
Claire knelt on the warm sand in front of her mother. “You’re not going anywhere until you tell me, Mom. I have to know.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Claire, you’d think it was a matter of life and death.” A tinkling laugh came from her pale lips. “Fine, I’ll tell you. Your father said things like that can change and grow over, and of course he was right. You had a scar on your right knee from falling off your trike when you were two. It was gone. But scars fade, of course, and you were so young that it made sense. One good thing was that you never had another asthma attack either. I think the cold air healed your lungs in that missing year.”
Did scars like that fade? Francisca’s face reflected the same doubt that Claire felt rising in her chest.
Moonlight filtered through the open window of her suite, and it was nearly as bright as twilight. Claire knew she ought to get up and close the drapes, but every muscle in her body ached. She moved her bare legs along the soft cotton sheets and buried her face in the sweet-smelling down pillow. She’d dozed off when she first went to bed, but the questions prodded her awake just after one, and her lids refused to stay shut.
She rolled to her stomach and punched her pillow. Prayer would help. She just needed to let go of this burden. While she didn’t know for sure who her earthly father was, she knew who her heavenly Father was. That should be enough, shouldn’t it?
Lord, calm me. Take this fear and uncertainty away.
Her eyes drifted shut, and she deliberately slowed her breathing. In and out, in and out. Her limbs relaxed, and she smiled at the sense of peace that began to claim her. She let herself remember Luke’s smile, the way it flashed in his tanned face. His thick black hair always drew her attention and made her want to put her hands in it. She hadn’t dared so far, but she was going to do it as soon as she had the courage.
He made her feel safe and treasured, and when she was in trouble, he always seemed to appear. Was that by God’s design? This was the first time she’d ever felt such a strong connection to a man. When he looked at her, she felt as though he could see right inside, to the deepest secrets she never told anyone. Did he feel that way about her at all? He seemed to seek her out, but was it mere attraction or something deeper?
When the first thump came, she thought she’d knocked a pillow from the bed. Then she heard it again and opened her eyes. Before she could throw the covers off the bed, she saw movement from the corner of her eye—a man in black moving fast toward her. She didn’t even get out a scream before a soft pillow came down on her face.
She fought against the hard hands holding her down. Struggling to draw in a breath, she found his wrists and tore at them to no avail. Spots danced in her vision, and she struggled to breathe past the suffocating softness pressed against her face. She had to get him off or she would die. She renewed her attack on his arms, digging her newly gelled nails into his skin.
He growled, and the pressure released slightly. Kicking off the covers, she brought her feet up and kicked him hard in the chest. He reeled back, and the pressure on her face eased. With the pillow off her nose, she coughed and drew in a sweet breath of air. She rolled to the opposite side of the bed and landed on the carpeted floor where she leaped to her feet and grabbed the lamp from the table.
The black ski mask he wore creeped her out. She shrieked a battle cry at the top of her lungs and brought the lamp crashing down on his head. He crumpled to his knees, and she raced for the door. She wrenched it open and tore down the hall toward the elevator. Screams ripped from her throat as she ran, pausing long enough to bang on other suite doors as she went.
She reached the elevator and punched the Down button, then turned to face her attacker. No one was there. He must be escaping. Did she dare go back to the room to try to identify him? She took a step back toward her room as her father rushed from his suite across the hall.
His blond hair askew and in his favorite blue pajamas, he hurried toward her. “What’s wrong, Claire? I heard you scream.”
“Someone was in my suite and tried to smother me. Call the sheriff.” Though Sheriff Colton was the last person she wanted to see now. Her vision dimmed, and she leaned her head against the wall. “I feel a little woozy. Just give me a minute.”
Her mother, still dragging her filmy white robe on over the matching nightgown, rushed from their suite and took Claire’s hand. “Honey, are you all right? Harry, call the doctor. She’s as cold as ice.”
The silky feel of the white negligee encompassed her as her mother hugged her tight. “I’ll be all right. I just need air.” Claire dragged in several long breaths until her vision cleared. “Let me up, Mom. I need to see if he’s still in there.”
One by one, doors opened all down the hall as guests peeked out. Two security men dressed in blue uniforms dashed up the exit stairs. They were both young and beefy, and seeing their bulk and determined expressions, Claire felt safe enough to briskly step toward her door.
“Let me, Ms. D-Dellamare.” The tallest security guard sent a sidelong glance her way, and she knew the news of her identity had raced through the town.
She lagged back to let him enter before her. The lights flipped on, and she peeked through the doorway into her suite. At first nothing looked disturbed except for the pillow and lamp on the floor, then she saw her easel overturned. “My picture of Jenny’s attacker—it’s gone!” She stepped closer and saw her sketchpad was gone as well. He’d been here for several reasons, but who was he?
And would he be back to finish the job?