Later that evening, Olivia hauled yet another box of photos onto her bed and sat cross-legged as she lifted the lid. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the cool spring breeze from the open window tickling her cheek.
She’d been going through boxes since dinner, wanting—needing—to feel some connection to her mother. In her previous wanderings down Memory Lane, she’d discovered photos of her mother in the dilapidated cotton-mill-come-dance-studio at various stages of the restoration and renovation process. She’d also found photos from early dance recitals, clearly produced on a shoestring budget with only the basics for scenery and the simplest of costumes.
There had been many of Olivia. Standing at the barre, arm lifted over her head, slippered toe pointed in front of her. She must have been nine or ten at the time. Another, aloft on the shoulder of a dance partner. What had been his name? Mark? Matt? No, Michael. That was it. Poor guy. He’d been pimply, shy, and forced by his stepmother to take dance lessons.
There were even photos in the box of a couple of ballerinas she recognized who had gone on to dance with major companies in the U.S. The beginning of her mother’s legacy.
This box held even older photos, from the 1980s by the looks of her mother’s big hair, bigger earrings, and oversized tops. Some of the photos had faded over time, and others were dog-eared or crumpled.
Coming to a photo of her mother with man, she held it closer to the lamplight. Her mother appeared young, eighteen or nineteen. Probably about the time she got pregnant with Olivia. Her mother wore a miniskirt, displaying her dancer’s legs to perfection. The man had his arm draped over her shoulder, and he was gazing at her, even as she looked into the camera.
He appeared older, maybe early thirties. His hair was dark and wavy, like her own, whereas her mother’s was ashy-blond and stick straight, and his skin had a warm olive tone. She flipped the photo over, hoping to see a name written on the back, but no such luck.
She gazed down at the photo, trying to see something of herself in his face. Did she have his eyes? His nose? She’d always assumed her father had been one of the dancers, maybe a member of the corps. But his broad shoulders and stocky build were not that of a dancer. So, who was he? A stagehand? A fan? A guy she met at a party?
Feeling a surge of excitement, she combed through the box and came up with another photo of the same man, this one with him alone, sitting at a café table, a glass lifted in toast toward the camera and a broad smile on his face. Again, no name on the back.
Sighing in frustration, she continued her search, but after having examined every photo in the box, there were no others of him. Laying the two photos side by side on the bed, she studied them once more. Could this man be her father? But who was he? What was his name? How had he and her mother met?
With a muttered curse, she flung herself back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. The sound of a passing car reached her as questions swirled in her brain.
Since her mother’s death, she’d felt alone and adrift, with no family to anchor her, no one with whom she shared DNA.
DNA. DNA?
Her heart hammered in her chest at the recollection.
Several years ago, Olivia had purchased a DNA test kit from one of the many companies who run such tests, but she hadn’t had any hits, except on her mother’s side. She’d eventually given up, vowing to avoid the repeated disappoints.
Should she check again? After all, it had been some time since she’d last checked.
Rising from the bed, she retrieved her laptop from its case and climbed back onto the bed. She tapped her fingers on the bed while it booted up. Clicking on the app, she wondered whether she could remember her password. She hit pay dirt after only two attempts at her password. Opening the message center, she found a few messages from people who, upon further inspection, were apparently third and fourth cousins—all on her mother’s side. Same with the DNA matches. Damn.
What’s new? Another dead end. With a groan of frustration, she shoved the computer out of her lap. Examining the photo of the man and her mother again, she wondered, did she owe it to her mother to remain ignorant of who her father was? Did she owe it to him, or his family? Did the promise her mother had made to herself on his behalf extend to her? Or should Olivia pursue it further and satisfy, once and for all, her desire to at least know who her father was, even if she could never meet him? Hug him? Love him?
With no answers to these burning questions, she pushed everything aside, punched her pillow, curled up on her side, and slept, visions of the man in the photo haunting her dreams.
“Olivia! What can I do for you?”
Marshall pressed a kiss to her cheek and gestured for her to have a seat in front of his desk.
“Do you have a question about your mother’s estate?”
Olivia hesitated, biting her lip, then spit it out, “Do you know who my father is?”
Marshall sat back, clearly not expecting that particular question. Folding his arms across his stomach, he frowned. “What’s this all about?”
She reached into her purse and pulled out the two photos she’d found last night. “Is this man my father? Do you know?”
“I can tell you, without having to see the pictures, that I don’t know.”
Taking the photos from her, he studied them, lips pursed in thought. He lifted his gaze to her, considering. “I can see some resemblance—around the eyes, the shape of the mouth, the skin tone, the hair.” He set the photos on the desk. “But I honestly don’t know. Your mother never shared with me who your father was.”
“But you knew he was dead?” Her hands gripped the strap of her purse in her lap.
He nodded. “I did. She told me not long after she found out.”
“When was that?”
Looking pensive, he was silent a few moments. “You must have been seventeen or so, but I don’t have a recollection of the exact date. I’m sorry.”
“When she finally told me on my eighteenth birthday, she said he’d died a year before. Did he live in Atlanta, do you know?”
“I don’t. Olivia, what is this all about? I knew from your mother that you brought this up from time to time, but I also knew that she’d told you your father died . . . a long time ago. Why are you dredging this up now?”
Feeling a wave of loneliness and self-pity wash over her, she bit back a sob, and rising, picked up the photos to put them back in her purse, but Marshall’s gentle touch on her wrist stopped her, and the flood gates opened.
Before she knew what happened, Marshall had her in his warm safe arms, murmuring words of endearment to her. When she’d finally blown her nose on the tissue Marshall handed her, she settled down on his sofa, and he sat in the chair next to her, holding her hand. “Talk to me.”
She drew in a breath, feeling a little foolish now. “I’m so alone now. I have no one.”
“Nothing could be further from the truth. You may not have blood kin, but you’re not alone. You have me. And you have Jennie and Amy, who would do anything for you.”
Olivia snorted.
“I know you and Jennie aren’t close, but I can promise you, she cares about you. And let’s turn this around. Jennie must feel pretty lonely too. She lost Carly as well, and she has no family to speak of either. You two are each other’s family.”
His soft but reproachful voice filled Olivia with shame. She’d been thinking only of herself. But what about the other people who loved Carly. What about Amy and Jennie? And Marshall?
This brought fresh tears to her eyes. “Oh, Marshall, I’m so sorry.”
“Think nothing of it. You’ve been dealing with a lot all at once, what with your injury, Carly, and the problems at the studio.” He squeezed her hand. “But, if you want me to look for your father, I will. It’s probably a long shot that I’ll find him, but I’m willing to try.”
Olivia sniffed, brushed a tear from her cheek, and nodded. “Let me think about it.”
Zach’s car skidded to a stop in the parking lot where two of his officers stood, flashlights raised as they approached the studio.
The door stood ajar, the glass in shards on the ground sparkling like diamonds in the beams of light.
“Dammit.”
He led the way, the crunch of the debris underfoot, one hand on the flashlight, the other on his holstered weapon. One of the officers turned off the alarm. Zach signaled to Hollis and St. John to peel off in different directions.
Zach took the stairs to the second floor, searching for further damage, missing items, or, even better, the culprit. He expected to find the closet open and the video equipment missing, yet the closet door remained closed. Scanning the studio, the flashlight beam landed on the costumes for the recital hanging on hooks along the far wall.
“Son of a bitch.” Spotlighted were two costumes, one a delicate blue short tutu, and the other a long yellow tutu. Not many guys would know what a tutu was, but spend enough time around a ballet dancer, and you learn a thing or two. Their diaphanous fabric was streaked in red, like blood spatter. He didn’t need to be told—he could guess whose costumes they were: Cinderella and the Fairy Godmother.
Radioing his officers, he received an all-clear from them. “Wish I could say the same.”
When Zach exited the building, Olivia was arguing with one of his officers. “Why can’t I go in?”
“Ma’am, it’s a crime scene.” Officer Sheldon held up his hands trying to stop her without touching her.
“Sheldon. It’s okay,” Zach called out.
Olivia ran past Sheldon and would have run right past Zach, if he hadn’t snagged her by the arm. “Whoa. Sheldon’s right. It’s a crime scene, so I can’t let you in.”
“Dammit, Zach!” She pulled away.
“You want us to catch whoever is doing this, right? And then convict him of it?” When she didn’t respond, he continued. “We can’t do that if the evidence is tainted.”
Tears filled her eyes, but she nodded.
Ah, dammit.
“Come here.” He gathered her to him, pressing her face to his shoulder.
“Why, Zach? Why is someone doing this?”
He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I don’t know, sweetheart. But we’ll find them. I promise you that.”
Zach sat at his computer, putting the finishing touches on the police report for the B&E and destruction of property. This was getting damn old. His peaceful little town had become a hotbed of petty crime.
“I have an idea who could be doing this.”
He glanced up to see Olivia standing in his doorway looking tired and put out. Zach lifted a questioning brow.
“Lily Larson.”
“Lily?” Zach stood, hand on hips. “The mayor’s wife? Are you kidding me?”
“She has motive. That day in Beans ’n Books she said I’d regret not giving her daughter the role of Cinderella.”
Zach scratched his chin. “Lily’s a vindictive bitch, I’ll give you that, but breaking and entering? Vandalism?” He had to admit, the thought had crossed his mind as well. But. He shook his head. “She’d be more likely to blackball you and the studio. Coerce those in her social circle to join in, not resort to B&E.”
“I’m not suggesting Lily is breaking in and spray-painting my studio and costumes. She’s got the financial wherewithal to hire someone to do it.” Olivia paced away. “Maybe she paid Shaun and Derek.”
“No.” Zach walked to the front of his desk, perching on the corner. “They’re both good kids at heart who took a wrong turn. They would never agree to that. Besides, they’ve been faithful in their promises to make restitution. Gone above and beyond what was required of them.”
“I’m sorry, you’re right. It’s just . . . it can’t be a coincidence, all this damage to the studio. Even if Shaun and Derek spray-painted the door—which I no longer believe they did—but the brick through the window? The destroyed costumes? Why else would I be the target, unless someone had a personal vendetta?”
Zach sat deep in thought for a few moments. After the destroyed costumes, he now assumed the brick through the window had been a test to see how long the perp had before law enforcement arrived.
“I’d like to think Chloe would never stoop to this,” Olivia continued. “In fact, I think she was relieved she didn’t get the part. Dancing had clearly been her mother’s idea.” She ran her fingers through her hair and drew a hairband from her wrist before twisting it up into a bun. “What about Christopher?”
Zach rose from the corner of his desk, considering. Maybe. He’s a little punk-ass spoiled brat. And he’d had that run-in with Derek and Emily. But. “He’s away at school.”
“Yeah, Dillon Academy. An hour’s drive from here. And I know he has a car. I’ve seen him driving that blue Mercedes sports car around town.”
Zach nodded. “I’ll check into it.” Folding his arms across his chest, he continued, “You do know this will stir up a hornet’s nest? Accusing the mayor’s son of B&E and vandalism.”
Olivia gnawed on her lower lip. “I do. And I’m sorry.”
Dropping his hands by his side, he approached her. “Why should you be sorry? You’re not the one committing a crime.”
“Yes, but this won’t go over well for you.”
He took her by the shoulders and pulled her toward him. “You let me worry about that.” Pressing a kiss to her forehead, he gathered her in. When she melted into him, all seemed right with the world. But Olivia was right. This would go over like a thunderstorm on a Fourth of July parade.