Chapter
two
The following day a tall, broad-shouldered man let himself into the police station meeting room where Zander and Carolyn waited. “Good morning. I’m Detective Kurt Shaw.”
Zander and Carolyn rose to greet the officer with handshakes.
“Carolyn Pierce.”
“Thank you for stopping by the station, ma’am.”
“You’re welcome. I’d like to introduce you to my nephew, Zander Ford.”
“I think we went to high school together,” the detective said to Zander. “I graduated with your brother.”
Recognition clicked. Kurt and Daniel hadn’t been close friends, but they’d gotten along well with each other. As far as Zander could recall, Kurt had gotten along with everyone. He’d been a scholar athlete who’d seemed older than his years—steadier and more responsible than his classmates.
“I remember,” Zander said. “You and Daniel both played baseball.”
“We did. Nice to see you again.”
“Likewise.”
Kurt must have started losing his hair at an early age because he was probably only thirty, yet had already shaved his head. His recessed eyes were set into a kind, forthright face. He wore navy pants and a maroon-and-blue checked shirt. Both looked like they’d been pulled out of a dry cleaning bag this morning.
Kurt set the file he’d been carrying onto the table as they took their seats. The white-walled room contained one rectangular window and no decoration, save for a framed print of the American flag and a bulletin board with the round insignia of the Merryweather police force tacked to it.
“Zander, are you up to speed on what happened to your uncle?” Kurt asked.
“Carolyn’s filled me in, but I’d like to hear it from your perspective, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” Kurt adjusted the position of his large black sports watch, placing the face directly on top of his wrist. “This past Saturday morning at approximately nine o’clock, our office received a call about your uncle’s truck. It was parked on the shoulder of Shadow Mountain Road in a no parking zone. One of our officers was in the area, so he swung by to investigate. He reached the truck at 9:10 and found your uncle slumped over in the front seat. He checked Frank’s vitals. When he could find none, he called the police chief, who contacted me. We arrived shortly after to process the scene. In time, Frank’s body was released to the medical examiner, who has forwarded me his preliminary findings.” Kurt opened the file. “Just so you’re both aware, the formal autopsy report won’t be available for approximately six weeks.”
“At this point,” Carolyn said, “my family and I would be grateful for any information at all. We just . . . we can’t believe what’s happened.”
“I understand.” Kurt regarded Carolyn with compassion, then glanced over the report. “The medical examiner has determined Frank’s cause of death to be acute myocardial infarction. A blockage of blood flow to the heart.”
This can’t be right. Frank can’t be dead, Zander’s brain insisted yet again. “A heart attack.”
“Yes.” Kurt turned his attention to Carolyn. “Did your husband have heart issues, Mrs. Pierce?”
“He did, yes. He had some blockages in the past that they treated with stents. His doctors prescribed medicine and encouraged him to eat well and exercise and avoid stress. I thought we had it under control,” she finished weakly.
“Was he good about taking his medicine?”
“He was.”
Carolyn sat with her legs crossed, hands mounded on her upper knee, unnaturally still. Her face was a little too oval and her nose a little too long to be considered conventionally beautiful. Yet at the age of sixty, Carolyn’s features still held their own unique brand of attractiveness.
She’d parted her long, wavy, blond-gray hair down the middle. As usual, she’d dressed in a loose top, belt, skirt, sandals. Even her artistic turquoise earrings were familiar to Zander. Yet she wasn’t herself today.
She worked in a gift shop on Merryweather’s Main Street, and her customers all adored her for her peaceful, friendly, optimistic personality. The shock of Frank’s death had stripped those qualities from her. Zander could see and feel her tension. She reminded him of a rubber band stretched too far then held immobile to keep from snapping.
Zander’s parents’ relationship had been rocky. But Carolyn’s relationship with Frank had been smooth. Frank had told everyone who’d listen how lucky he was to be married to Carolyn, how much he loved and valued her.
Every morning Frank had made her tea. Every evening when he’d arrived home from work, he hugged her. He’d joke about her affection for incense sticks until he could make her laugh.
“What’s that smell?” he’d ask.
“Ylang-ylang,” Carolyn would answer.
“I’m trying to watch basketball here. Ylang-ylang and basketball don’t go together.”
“They do in this house, Frank Pierce.”
Zander could only imagine how devastating it must be for Carolyn to sit here beside him, listening to a detective half her age tell her that her husband had died of a heart attack. Of all people, Frank’s death would affect her the most.
“Does it say in the report what time he died?” Carolyn asked Kurt.
“The medical examiner estimated Frank’s time of death to be around five a.m.”
“Wait.” Carolyn’s features sharpened. “Five p.m. or five a.m?”
“Five a.m. on Saturday morning,” Kurt said.
“Then . . . where was he?” she asked. “From the time he left work on Friday afternoon until the time of his death?”
Foreboding twisted Zander’s stomach.
“I wanted to ask you about that, actually,” Kurt said. “To see if you had any idea where Frank might have gone.”
Pain and confusion drifted in Carolyn’s eyes like fog. “No, I don’t have any idea at all. I’m sorry, I’m baffled. Frank and I—” Her voice broke. “We’d talked on Friday about having shrimp scampi and salad for dinner that night. I expected him home at the regular time. When he didn’t come home, I started calling him on his cell phone.”
“What time did you start calling?” Kurt asked.
“Around six forty-five. At midnight, I called 9-1-1.”
“Was Frank in the habit of staying out late from time to time?”
“No.”
“Had he ever stayed out all night before?”
“Never.”
“Does he typically answer his cell phone when you call?”
“He does, yes.”
“As you know, Shadow Mountain Road connects Merryweather to Shore Pine,” Kurt said. “His truck was pointing toward Shore Pine when we found it. Can you think why he would’ve been driving in that direction?”
Carolyn’s forehead wrinkled. “There’s a plumbing supply store there that Frank likes. Zander, can you think of anything?”
“Jim, his coworker and friend, lives in Shore Pine.”
“Yes, and our church is there.” She gave an anguished shrug. “I really don’t know. I can’t fathom why he would have been driving there at that time in the morning.”
Kurt leaned back in his chair. “Jim Davis called me. Is that the same one you mentioned?”
Zander and Carolyn nodded. Frank had worked construction at Chapman and Associates ever since he and Carolyn had moved to this part of Washington as newlyweds thirty-three years ago. Jim had joined the company shortly after Frank, and the two men were good friends.
“Jim said that Frank received a call on the jobsite around four thirty on Friday afternoon. After answering it, he walked away to continue the conversation. Jim couldn’t hear what was said, but he could see that Frank was upset. Shortly after, Frank left for the day. Do you know who might’ve called him?”
“No,” Carolyn answered.
“Was Frank involved in an argument with anyone? Was he in trouble financially?”
“No. Are . . .” Carolyn inhaled raggedly. “Are you thinking that someone might have . . . had a hand in Frank’s death?”
“No. Frank’s death was caused by a heart attack. I’m simply trying to get a sense of his whereabouts during the hours that are unaccounted for.”
“Did you check Frank’s phone?” Zander asked. “To see who called him at work?” Based on what Carolyn had told him, he knew the police had taken Frank’s cell phone and several other items as evidence.
“Yes, but I hit a dead end. The call was placed by a burner phone.”
Carolyn looked puzzled.
“A burner phone is a pre-paid, disposable phone,” Zander said to her.
“Which means we can’t access records on the person who purchased it.” Kurt hunched forward and once again scanned the report. “The medical examiner noted that Frank had a bullet wound in his left outer thigh. Do you know when and how Frank received that injury?”
Carolyn regarded Kurt as if he’d spoken his question in a foreign language. “The scar on Frank’s leg isn’t from a bullet wound. It’s from a metal stake that fell and hit Frank while he was working at a construction site back in 1985. I remember because I met him shortly after, when we were both living in Seattle.”
A long silence answered. Kurt met Zander’s eyes before returning his focus to Carolyn. “Ma’am, the medical examiner is certain that the injury was caused by a bullet.”
Zander scowled. Frank had told Zander the story about the metal stake whenever his old injury acted up.
“How can the medical examiner be certain?” Carolyn asked.
“Because he was able to recover the bullet, Mrs. Pierce.”
Quiet descended, thick and cold.
Frank had lied. He’d lied to both Carolyn and Zander about the injury.
A knock sounded, and a deputy stuck his head into the room. “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s a call for you, Kurt.”
Kurt excused himself, shutting the door softly behind him.
Carolyn’s skin had paled, and two wrinkles shaped like brackets dented the skin on either side of her lips. She extended her trembling hand to him, and Zander immediately took firm hold of it. He pulled the file toward them. “Would you like to look over the report yourself?”
“No, thank you. I can’t bear to.”
Zander picked up the papers and read them carefully, using his photographic memory to take mental snapshots of them.
“Zander,” Carolyn said after a time, her voice low.
He set the sheets aside and faced her fully.
She stared sightlessly out the window. “I need to know what happened to Frank. I definitely . . . I just need to know. For myself. For Courtney and Sarah.”
Frank and Carolyn’s daughters were in their early thirties, both married. Courtney was five months pregnant with her first child.
“It’s just that I don’t think I can handle any more . . . surprises about Frank at the moment,” Carolyn continued. “It’s all . . . it’s really all I can do to put one foot in front of the other.”
“If you want me to, I’ll find out what happened to Frank for you.”
Weary hope sprang to her face. “You’d do that?”
“Of course.” Once, he’d been an orphan convinced that he didn’t need saving. But then Carolyn and Frank had proved him wrong when they’d gone ahead and saved him anyway. If he could save her—even from the heartache of the questions surrounding Frank’s death—he would.
“I don’t know if it’s fair of me to ask that of you,” she said. “It probably isn’t. I’m putting too much responsibility on you, aren’t I?”
“No. You’re not.” He had a manuscript due to his publisher at the end of the summer, but he’d been working on it consistently while he’d been overseas. He could continue his writing pace here, spend the bulk of his time doing what Carolyn needed done, and still get his manuscript in on time. “It’ll be a relief to have something tangible to do. Tracking down answers is tangible.”
Tears gathered on her eyelashes. “Thank you.” She tried to smile. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, Aunt Carolyn.”
Britt had taught Zander to cook and, frankly, she’d done an outstanding job.
Dating men was entertaining. Dancing with men—enjoyable. Kissing men—pleasurable. Competing with men—exciting. But cooking with Zander was a dream.
He stood beside her in her cottage’s kitchen, seasoning a tray of Broccolini while she chopped a shallot for the citrus vinaigrette she’d pair with her arugula and pear salad.
Zander wasn’t in Norway or Spain or Singapore.
He was right next to her, and they were cooking together in perfect synchronicity.
He slid the Broccolini into the oven. “What’ll it take? About fourteen minutes?” he asked her.
“Thirteen,” she teased, knowing he was physically incapable of setting a timer or alarm to an odd number.
He winked. “Fourteen it is.” After adjusting her kitchen timer, he set the ingredients she’d need for the vinaigrette near her cutting board. Champagne vinegar, olive oil, an orange, a lemon, pepper grinder, salt shaker.
The salmon filets Britt had purchased earlier waited, prepped. She planned to pan fry those last, right before she, Zander, and her sisters sat down to dinner.
As soon as Willow and Nora had learned of Zander’s return, they’d contacted Britt, demanding to know when they could see him. Tonight’s dinner was Britt’s answer, and so far, her sisters were making good use of their time. They were currently setting the table and pelting Zander with questions about his Grand Tour.
Britt listened to their conversation with one ear while pouring a golden stream of olive oil into her bowl. Phillip Phillips’ gravelly voice eased from the speakers. A breeze stirred the white curtains that accented the dining room windows. Whenever the temperature hovered above fifty and below eighty, Britt kept at least a few of her windows cracked. She craved fresh air and the extended daylight of the spring and summer months.
Tonight, dusk was hesitating extra long, as if unsure of its welcome. The peachy pink sky suited the satisfied state of Britt’s heart.
There’d been a time when a gathering that included herself, Zander, and her sisters had been commonplace. But this particular grouping had become very rare. Mostly because of Zander’s long absence. But also because the Bradford family was changing and expanding.
Britt’s oldest sister, Willow, had married Corbin Stewart last summer. Nora would be marrying John Lawson in a month and a half. Britt was acquiring brothers-in-law faster than shipments of cacao beans, and her sisters’ schedules were busier than ever. Not that she held that fact against Corbin and John or her sisters. Her brothers-in-law were great guys, handsome guys, accomplished guys. If Britt were to marry, which was a big if, she’d always known it wouldn’t happen until after her sisters were married. Everything was progressing exactly as it should.
Even so, she occasionally missed the old days when she’d been—let’s face it—the crux of Zander’s and Willow’s and Nora’s social lives.
She gave the salt shaker a hearty twist and watched the flakes dot the top of her vinaigrette.
“We’ve finished setting the table,” Willow told her.
“Can we lend a hand with the cooking?” Nora asked.
“Thanks, but we’ve got it under control.” Her sisters were well-meaning, but Britt had no interest in talking amateurs through the creation of this dinner. Sharing cooking duties was, in her opinion, sort of like sharing the creation of a piece of artwork. Better left in the hands of the people who had a clue. “Your main job tonight is to inflate Zander’s ego by giving him lots of undeserved—”
“Well deserved,” he corrected.
“Attention,” Britt finished.
Zander shot her a small smile. She smiled back, glanced down at her work space, then glanced back at him and found that he was still watching her.
“What did you think of New Zealand, Zander?” Nora asked. “I’ve been dying to go there ever since I learned that’s where they shot Lord of the Rings.”
He was tugged back into Willow and Nora’s inquisition as he closed two drawers, then began rinsing the dishes and utensils Britt had used.
One side of her kitchen ran along the rear wall of her house. Acacia wood topped the half wall that formed the other side, which emptied to her living room. On top of the acacia wood, she’d placed seasoned nuts, grapes, brie, and crackers.
She lived at Hackberry Lane Cottages, Merryweather’s only community of small homes. The floor plans of the cottages varied, but none of the houses were larger than hers, which rang in at fifteen hundred square feet. The exterior of every home in the miniature neighborhood looked similar: taupe-painted siding with white trim, a roomy front porch, two stories tall, shimmering windows, steeply pitched roof. The structures were aligned in two rows that faced each other across a garden zigzagged by stone pathways and bursting with spring flowers. A petite wooden fence framed the garden, and a sidewalk framed the fence. A row of trees hid their parking lot from view at one end of the complex. The other end of the complex flowed into protected woodland.
The moment Britt had heard about the Hackberry Lane development, she’d visited the sales office. And the moment they’d shown her their plans, she’d plunked down her money.
Not all of the spontaneous decisions she’d made in her life had turned out well. One spontaneous decision in particular had almost cost her her life. But, fortunately, she’d never once regretted her spur-of-the-moment decision to buy her home. She’d embraced the entire concept—the small environmental footprint, the sustainable ethic, and the fostering of connection with neighbors.
The majority of the residents had decorated their cottages in cottage style. Not Britt. While charming was fine for the outside of her house, she’d kept the interior modern, crisp, and simple. White walls. Sleek leather furniture. A thin Kilim rug patterned in shades of blue and white.
“. . . the detective told us that Frank had a bullet wound in his leg,” Zander was saying.
“Wait.” Britt ceased her movement. “Wait wait wait. My mind must have wandered. What are you saying?”
“I was saying that yesterday Kurt Shaw, the detective—”
“I know Kurt,” Nora said.
“So do I,” Willow said. “He grew up here in Merryweather.”
“His mom,” Nora told Willow, “is Racquel Shaw—”
“But what did he say when you met with him about Frank?” Britt asked Zander.
“That Frank died of a heart attack, just like we thought. He also said that the injury Frank had on his leg was caused by a bullet. Which means the story he told my aunt and everyone else about the scar on his leg was false.”
“Intriguing,” Nora said.
“Why would he have lied?” Britt asked.
“He might have been ashamed or embarrassed,” Willow suggested.
“Could be,” Zander said. “It seems strange to me, though, that he wouldn’t have told Carolyn the truth. Why wouldn’t he have told her?”
The sisters shrugged in response. Britt popped a red grape into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. She broke another from the stem and pitched it to Zander so accurately that he caught it in his mouth.
Tonight, he’d combined his jeans with a muted orange T-shirt that made his eyes look especially blue in contrast. His inky hair stuck up in casual disorder. Five o’clock shadow darkened his cheeks.
“I’d like to find out more about Frank’s old injury, if I can,” Zander said. “Nora?”
Nora perked up. She loved to be helpful.
“What would be the best way to look up information on that?”
“Do you know Frank’s full name, his birth date, and the location of his birth?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’d recommend you start by plugging that information into one of the genealogy websites and running a search for records.”
Britt hurried toward the staircase. “I’ll grab my computer.”
“We don’t have to do this right now.” Amusement tinged Zander’s words. “Think of the Broccolini.”
“I’ve never stopped thinking of the Broccolini.” Britt climbed the stairs two at a time. “And we absolutely do have to do this right now. My curiosity’s piqued.”
“There’s no stopping her when her curiosity’s piqued,” Britt heard Willow say.
“No,” Zander replied, “there’s not.”
“‘Never lose a holy curiosity,’” Britt called down to them. “That’s an Albert Einstein quote.”
She grabbed her computer, descended the stairs, and handed it to Nora. Nora set it on the bar top near the brie and booted it up.
Red-haired Nora had dressed with trademark vintage flair tonight in a sleeveless turtleneck shirt and turquoise capris. A genealogist who ran the Library on the Green Museum that anchored Merryweather Historical Village, she’d never met a search for historical information she didn’t like.
Willow stood next to Nora wearing a plum-colored sundress, absent-mindedly straightening a lock of blond hair between her thumb and pointer finger. She still looked as slim and sophisticated as she had when she’d been a model, even though she’d retired from modeling more than a year ago. Since then, she’d opened a clothing and housewares store in Shore Pine called Haven.
The three sisters shared a father, but had been born to different mothers. As a result, they didn’t resemble one another strongly.
The click of the keyboard punctuated the air as they watched the computer screen.
Zander had spent so much time at Bradfordwood, the sisters’ childhood home, that he’d become a de facto family member. He’d been included in countless family parties and functions. He’d accompanied them on several trips and, for a long time now, he’d treated Willow and Nora like sisters . . . . minus the fighting, disagreements, and rivalry.
“Okay,” Nora said to Zander, hands poised above the keyboard. “I’m ready.”
“His full name was Frank Joseph Pierce.”
She entered the information.
Britt checked on the Broccolini—browning nicely—then resumed her position next to Zander.
“He was born on February second, 1955,” Zander said, “in Enumclaw, Washington.”
Nora hit return. “Here he is.” She angled her head toward the topmost search result. “I’m just going to click on his name to bring up some additional information about him.” A hitch of quiet. “Hmm.” Seriousness weighted the single syllable.
“What is it?” Zander asked.
“Well.” Nora drew Zander nearer the screen. “Frank Joseph Pierce was born on the day you supplied in the town you supplied. But look at this.” She pointed to one of the dates provided. “Frank Joseph Pierce died in 1956.”
Britt stared in confusion at the blocky black numerals.
Nora clicked on a link that brought up a death certificate. Britt’s vision raced over the information. Frank had drowned in August of 1956, when he’d been just a year and a half old.
“This must be the wrong person,” Zander said.
“It’s possible.” Nora spoke calmly. “However, it would be unusual for more than one Frank Joseph Pierce to have been born in a small town on the same day.” She returned to the previous screen and scrolled down.
Britt had gotten to know Frank well, through Zander, when she’d been a teenager. In more recent years, she’d worked side by side with Frank on Merryweather Historical Village’s annual O Holy Night Christmas Concert. From time to time, he and Carolyn invited her to dinner parties. She invited them to join her when a guest chef served a meal at the Village. She saw them at wedding showers and baby showers and fundraising events. Every few weeks, Frank stopped by the shop to drink coffee and visit with her.
Nora selected another listing for Frank Joseph Pierce. This time, the details about the Frank Britt knew, their Frank, populated the screen. His wedding certificate. A listing of the times he’d appeared in the census.
This was what Britt had expected to see when Nora had run her initial search. Yet all of this now felt as obsolete as a rotary phone in light of the death certificate they’d viewed first.
She peeked at Willow. Willow peeked at her. A pulse of What in the world is going on? passed between them.
“This documents my uncle’s life,” Zander said.
“But there’s also documentation about the life of someone with the same name who died when he was a toddler.”
“Yes.”
The kitchen timer sounded. Zander used a dish towel to extract the Broccolini from the oven, then made his way back to them. “So even though it’s unusual, two babies with the same name were born in the same place on the same day.”
“That’s the conclusion I’d reach if I could find separate birth certificates for each,” Nora agreed. “But I can’t.” She checked and rechecked. “Here’s the birth certificate belonging to the Frank who drowned.” She enlarged a scanned image of a simple, old-school birth certificate printed on beige paper. It listed the date of birth and then the place of birth: Enumclaw, King County. Mother’s maiden name: Gladys Mortensen. Father’s name: William Pierce.
“And here,” Nora said, “is the birth certificate belonging to your uncle.”
The very same birth certificate appeared. Beige paper. Place of birth: Enumclaw, King County. Mother’s maiden name: Gladys Mortensen. Father’s name: William Pierce.
In the silence that followed, Britt’s thoughts spun. They came to a stop on the nonsensical realization that her earlier goal of having the salmon ready at the same time as the Broccolini was shot.
“Two separate people are sharing the same birth certificate,” Nora said.
“Maybe the birth certificate is right, and it’s the death certificate that’s wrong,” Zander said. “Could the death certificate for the boy who died have been issued to Frank by mistake?”
“Excellent question.” Nora centered young Frank Joseph Pierce’s death certificate on the screen again. “Frank’s death certificate includes information about his birth. And look, the details of his birth that are listed here all agree with what we know to be true. The day. The place. His parents’ names.”
Gladys Mortensen. William Pierce.
“The details line up,” Nora said. “Which makes me think this death certificate was issued to the right person.”
“What other explanation for this could there be?” Zander asked.
Nora faced them, leaving one hand on the bar top. Thoughtfully, she clicked a fingernail against the laptop’s metal surface. “Before computers were as prevalent as they are now, people who were in the market for a new identity would occasionally search cemeteries for gravestones. They’d find someone of roughly the same gender and age as themselves.”
“And?” Britt asked.
“They’d jot down the person’s full name and birthday. Then they’d call the local hospital, impersonate the dead person, and ask to be sent their birth certificate.”
Willow frowned. “But how?”
“Hi, this is Mary Smith,” Nora said, “and I was born in your hospital on June seventeenth, 1942. I’m so very, very sorry, but I’ve just moved and searched through every single packing box, and I can’t find my birth certificate anywhere. Is there any possible way for you to reissue me a new one? If so, you’ll save my marriage, and I’ll be forever grateful. Truly! So grateful.”
“And just like that a person could get their hands on a birth certificate that didn’t belong to them?” Willow asked.
“Back in the day, the answer was sometimes yes,” Nora answered. “Once a person had possession of a birth certificate, they could visit the DMV and apply for a license. The DMV would take a photo and attach it to the name on the birth certificate. Once they were granted a driver’s license, a world of possibilities opened to them.”
Zander scratched the back of his neck. “You think Frank stole a dead child’s identity.”
“I think it’s possible.” Nora sighed. “I’ve been researching genealogy for years, and I’ve only seen evidence of a potential stolen identity one other time. It’s rare. But I have seen it.” She considered him, concern in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Zander. I know this isn’t what you’d hoped to find.”
After they finished dinner, after they ate vanilla toffee bar crunch for dessert, after Willow and Nora went home, Zander sat next to Britt on her living room sofa.
Britt had a way of cooking—choosing ingredients and blending flavors—that was unique to her. He’d missed her food. Tonight, finally, he’d had the chance to eat a meal of hers for the first time in what felt like a decade.
But the information Nora had uncovered about Frank before they’d sat down to dinner had caused his chest to tighten with anxiety. He regretted that he hadn’t been able to taste the food like he’d wanted to.
Britt looped her arms around her bent knees, her socked feet flat on the sofa. She never wore shoes or slippers inside her house, only socks. He tried not to notice how well her jeans fit or the creamy V of skin at the base of her neck, revealed by her purple shirt. She’d braided her brown hair loosely and pulled the braid forward over one shoulder.
He sat against the sofa’s back, his palm tucked behind his head, his feet crossed on one of the two shellacked wooden stumps that functioned as her coffee tables.
The intensity between them caused the air particles separating his position from hers to vibrate. From his perspective, anyway. She probably didn’t feel what he felt. To Britt, the air between them was likely as flat as the surface of a windless lake.
Memories of the many, many other times they’d sat just like this moved through his mind. They’d talked, laughed, discussed decisions big and small, worked on some harebrained plan of his or hers—usually hers—and watched movies from this spot.
Sitting next to her tonight felt different, though. Because so much time had passed and because of the push-pull battle happening inside of him. Love pulling him to her. Futility pushing him away.
Before he’d gone abroad, he had years of practice at stuffing down his emotions toward Britt. It had never been easy. Even so, he’d become very good at it. He’d been able to manage himself inwardly and outwardly when they were together. The push-pull battle had been bearable. At least, it had been bearable right up until the night she’d thrown him a dinner party at Bradfordwood to celebrate his book contract.
She’d been dating a guy named Tristan at the time. When she’d told the guests about Tristan, her cheeks had been pink, and she’d looked excited and happy and infatuated and, all of a sudden, he’d known what he had to do with his advance.
He had to leave.
Until that dinner party, he hadn’t had the means to leave. But on that night, he’d had the means, which had, in turn, allowed him the luxury of hitting his limit. He’d taken the getaway car his newfound money provided because he’d understood that he owed himself a chance to move on. He’d needed to prove his independence from her to himself.
The night of the dinner party, the push-pull battle had not been bearable.
Nor was it bearable now.
Either he’d outgrown his old coping mechanisms or they’d become so rusty they were of almost no use to him.
Good grief. He really needed his coping mechanisms. She was assessing him without a shred of self-consciousness, and he was almost afraid to meet her eyes, for fear of what she might see.
She was far more comfortable in her own skin than anyone else he knew. Certainly more so than he was. He’d only recently grown into himself on his trip. Britt hadn’t needed travel to grow into herself. She’d always been exactly who she was.
“I’m trying to think of things that would explain why two separate people would have the same birth certificate,” Britt said.
“Me too.”
“I can’t come up with anything, but I wish I could.”
“So do I. I’m trying to process the fact that Frank may have taken a child’s identity. . . . That he may not have been who he said he was.”
“He was so genuine. He seemed to me like an open book. It’s hard to imagine him needing to change his identity—let alone him actually doing it, then keeping it a secret.”
Groaning, Zander bent forward. His feet thumped onto the floor as he pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead. “How am I going to tell this to Carolyn?”
“You’ll find a way.”
“She told me that she can’t handle surprises right now.”
“She also told you that she needed to know Frank’s story, right?”
“Right.”
“It sounds like this identity thing might be part of Frank’s story. If so, then the truth is the truth. This surprise isn’t your fault, and you can’t change it.”
He drew in a heavy inhale. “I told Carolyn I’d find answers for her. I’d hoped the answers would make things better. What if they make things worse? What if I uncover something disturbing or depressing?”
“That would stink, but again: The truth is the truth.”
“What if I uncover something dangerous?”
“Then knowledge is power. If Carolyn’s in danger, then it would be better to be informed than ignorant.”
Taking his time, he sat up fully. “Happy, law-abiding people don’t change their identities. Only people who are in trouble or who want to escape from something change their identities.”
“You have a point.”
Zander worked the situation in his mind. “Let’s assume Nora’s right, that my uncle isn’t the real Frank Pierce. If so, then how can we find out who he really is—was?”
“I have no idea.”
She looked gorgeous and eager to help him. Do you want to help me, Britt? Then love me. Love me back.
Here’s the thing, though: He knew his predicament wasn’t Britt’s fault.
He’d have nothing to complain about if he could adjust his feelings for her to the level of her feelings for him. He’d tried for years to care about her in the same way that she cared about him.
Zander wanted to fall in love and get married and have kids and maybe write books from an office with a view of the water. He wanted all that, but he couldn’t have any of it until he could find a way to change the way he felt about her. He knew this.
The last time he’d seen his brother, Daniel had made Zander promise that he’d do everything he could to let Britt go.
Zander had promised.
Yet, sitting two feet from her, he was powerless to stop the longing from roaring through his bloodstream. If he kissed her, he could prove his longtime theory that kissing her would taste like chocolate.
“Let’s brainstorm ways to confirm Frank’s identity,” she said.
“Fingerprints?” he suggested. “Do you think the medical examiner would have taken Frank’s fingerprints during the autopsy?”
A spark illuminated her face. “If so, we can ask Detective Shaw to run his prints.”
“Which might be in the system if Frank committed a crime in his younger years.”
She resettled the end of her braid. “What about the bullet that was removed from Frank’s leg? Could that lead us to some clues?”
“Possibly.” He noticed she’d used the word us. She’d assumed this search was their search, and with good reason. They’d tackled their problems together in the past. “I’m wondering if the town of Enumclaw could be a clue.”
“Right. Because why would Frank have been shopping in that particular cemetery for a new identity unless he had a connection to the town?”
He nodded. “On the other hand, he may not have had any connection to the town. He might’ve been driving through Enumclaw, spotted the cemetery, and decided to pull over to search the gravestones.”
Her lips twitched with skepticism. “Would you put something that random into one of your books?”
“No, because random chance doesn’t work in fiction. But in real life, people do inexplicable things all the time.”
She reached for the bowl of chocolate-covered cashews on the side table and offered them to him.
“No thanks.”
She adjusted into a cross-legged position, wincing a little as she did so, almost as if the motion had hurt her.
“You okay?”
“Fine.” She set the bowl in front of her ankles and popped two cashews into her mouth. “What if the bullet wound is connected to Frank’s decision to change his identity?”
“It probably wouldn’t hurt to search for news stories about shootings that happened in the general area of Enumclaw shortly before Carolyn met Frank.”
“Because Frank already had the bullet wound and the new identity when they met.”
“Correct.”
“What year was that?” she asked.
“1985.”
“If I were a betting woman, which you know that I am—”
“Yep.”
“—I’d bet on us. Working together, I think we have a shot at figuring this out.”
“Thanks, but I’m planning to look into this by myself. In other words, alone.” He tried and failed to keep his expression serious.
Her chestnut-colored eyes lit with fire. “I’d like to see you try to stop me from joining you.”
“That’s what I was afraid you’d say.” Those were the words he spoke. However, the truest, hungriest, most selfish part of him was very glad that she was determined to join him in this. He wanted her as his ally. He wanted her near him.
Which was idiotic.
If they spent hours working side-by-side, he had no confidence in his ability to resist her. Nor did he trust that he’d be able to make himself return to Japan and finish his trip when the time came.
Once the funeral was over, he discovered what had happened to Frank, and Carolyn was on her feet again, he needed to leave Washington. He still had six months of travel plans left to complete.
Even so.
Regardless of all that.
He wanted her near him.
Phone call from Zander to Detective Kurt Shaw:
| Zander: | Some friends and I were checking online records last night and we came across two entries for Frank Joseph Pierce. One was for my uncle. The other was for a child who died in 1956. But here’s the troubling thing: Both of them share the same birth certificate. |
| Kurt: | What? |
| Zander: | Nora Bradford was there. She’s a genealogist, and she suggested that my uncle Frank might’ve assumed the identity of the deceased Frank Pierce. Would my uncle’s fingerprints have been taken during the autopsy? |
| Kurt: | Yes, they would have. |
| Zander: | I’m wondering if they could confirm his identity. Either as Frank Pierce or as . . . someone else. |
| Kurt: | I’ll check to see if the prints have been run. If not, I’ll make sure that they are. Then I’ll get back to you with results. |