Late the next morning, Leah woke in her hotel room to a column of sunshine falling across the foot of her bed. Clean, crisp sheets cocooned her.
A text from Sebastian, who’d be back at work by now on this Monday morning, awaited her.
Meet me for coffee before you drive home? I know a place.
Is this my life? she thought, tossing a hand onto the pillow above her head with a happy sigh.
The enormous gray monolith otherwise known as the Lewis R. Slaton Courthouse had been constructed more than a hundred years ago. Leah sat in the waiting area of the “closed file room,” smelling the building’s age in its dust-scented air and seeing the building’s age in the old-fashioned glass partition separating her from the room’s attendant.
This morning she’d placed a phone call to the courthouse and learned that criminal records were not available online, but that both criminal and civil records were available here. So she’d checked out of her hotel and relocated to the courthouse computer lab. She’d begun by searching for criminal and civil proceedings that named her parents, Erica and Todd Montgomery. Her efforts generated no matches. Nor did her efforts generate a match for Trina Brookside.
When she’d moved on to Jonathan Brookside, however, she’d hit pay dirt. So much pay dirt that she’d been momentarily caught by surprise, like a hide-and-seek-player who jumps when they discover their friend blinking at them from underneath a bed.
Seven civil suits had been filed against Jonathan over the years. But only two—one for wrongful termination and one for breach of contract—had been filed recently enough that the associated documents were available digitally.
She’d combed through those two suits and recorded all the pertinent details on her phone. Then she’d jotted down the case numbers for the other five cases.
When none of the nurses’ names resulted in a single criminal or civil charge, she’d consulted the staff member in the computer room, who’d informed Leah that she’d need to visit the closed file room to gain access to documents pertaining to the old suits filed against Jonathan.
She’d submitted a records request for the case numbers in question thirty minutes ago. Ever since, she’d been waiting alongside an elderly woman speaking Spanish quietly into her phone and a middle-aged couple. The wife was reading Better Homes & Gardens and the husband was dozing while sitting upright.
Seven suits against Jonathan.
Seven! That seemed like an unusually high number, but perhaps it wasn’t. Perhaps that was a low number of suits for an individual who owned a company as large as Gridwork Communications Corporation.
“Ms. Montgomery?”
She approached the young blond man stationed behind the glass.
“Here you are.” He slid her the stack of pages he’d photocopied from the originals.
She thanked him and returned to her still-warm chair.
Quickly, she skimmed the pages. One suit for breach of contract. One for discrimination. One for intellectual property rights. Two for wrongful termination.
At first glance, it appeared two of the suits had been settled out of court and that he’d been acquitted of the rest. Which, of course, did not necessarily mean Jonathan had been innocent. The acquittals might simply mean that he’d had an excellent defense team.
Leah crossed her legs, collected a pen from her purse, and started wading through the dense legal language of the topmost sheet. Page by page, she circled every key fact—names, dates, the gist of the accusation, the result.
When she reached the intellectual property suit, she circled the plaintiff’s name. Ian Monroe O’Reilly.
Instantly, recognition clicked. One of her nurses at Magnolia Avenue Hospital had the same surname.
The mysterious Bonnie O’Reilly.
This particular suit had been filed thirty years ago. Ian O’Reilly (age twenty-seven) had accused Jonathan Brookside (also age twenty-seven) of stealing his idea, his technology, and his research and using it to found Gridwork Communications Corporation.
Leah read through the remainder of the document. The case had been tried. Jonathan had not been found liable.
Think, Leah.
A plaintiff named O’Reilly had sued Jonathan Brookside. Two years later, a nurse named O’Reilly had cared for Jonathan Brookside’s daughter on the day of her birth.
O’Reilly was one of the most common American surnames of Irish origin. The fact that Baby Brookside’s nurse shared the same name as a plaintiff who’d sued Jonathan Brookside a few years prior could comfortably be attributed to coincidence.
If everything had proceeded normally from there, had she and Sophie gone home with their rightful parents, suspicion would not be justified. But instead, while a nurse named O’Reilly was on duty, Baby Brookside had been switched with Baby Montgomery.
Under those circumstances, suspicion seemed highly justified.
Tilting back her head, she peered at the crown molding dividing wall from ceiling.
Ian and Jonathan had both been twenty-seven. According to Joyce, Bonnie had been fifty or so at the time of Leah’s birth. It was feasible to think that Bonnie could have been Ian’s mother. Or perhaps his aunt? Cousin?
If Bonnie had been related to the Ian who’d sued Jonathan, then, no doubt, Bonnie was not one of Jonathan’s admirers.
So . . . What?
Bonnie had taken it upon herself to punish Jonathan by swapping his child with someone else’s?
But why? That seemed far too extreme. It was true that the wheels of justice didn’t always turn fairly, yet it looked as if due process had been followed in this case. Ian had had his day in court.
Confounded, Leah Googled Ian O’Reilly on her phone. Several results populated. But just like when she’d hunted for Bonnie, none of these people seemed to be the person she sought. These men weren’t the right age or hadn’t lived in Georgia.
When she finished reading through the rest of the paperwork, she returned to the attendant, who looked up inquiringly.
“I’m interested in accessing a birth certificate,” she told him. “Can you recommend how to go about that?” If she could find Ian O’Reilly’s birth certificate, she’d learn his mother’s name, his father’s name, his place of birth, and more that might help her locate him.
“Are you the person named on the birth certificate?”
“I’m not.”
“Are you a primary family member of the person named?”
“I’m not.”
“Sorry, but those are the only two categories qualified to request birth certificates.”
“Ah. I see.”
“You can get a look at some of the information provided on birth certificates through census records.”
“How long after a census is taken is it released to the public?”
“Seventy-two years.”
“Thank you.”
Leah walked toward her parking space. Ian O’Reilly wouldn’t have been born seventy-two years ago, so the census would be no help. Bonnie O’Reilly, however, likely would have been born by then if Joyce had estimated her age accurately.
As soon as she settled behind the wheel of her Honda, she logged into YourHeritage.com. She clicked on the tab for census records and began typing in Bonnie’s last name—
Stopped.
Joyce had said that Bonnie was a single mother when they worked together. But if Bonnie had been married back when she’d had her child . . . then O’Reilly was likely Bonnie’s married name. When the census was taken more than seven decades ago, Bonnie would have been a girl. Her last name would not have been O’Reilly. Her last name would have been her maiden name.
Still, it was worth a shot to search for census records for Bonnie O’Reilly. Maybe Bonnie had never married. Or maybe she had, but had kept her maiden name all her life.
Leah filled in the scant information she knew about Bonnie and ran a search for census records pertaining to her.
No promising matches whatsoever.
She lowered the phone to her lap with a frustrated exhale.
The second Sebastian entered the coffee shop and saw Leah, he knew something was wrong.
His workday had passed incredibly slowly because he’d looked at his watch every few minutes to see how many hours remained until his afternoon break and the chance to see Leah. Now he was finally here. She sat at a small table inside the crowded interior, two cups of coffee before her, talking to someone on her phone. Her eyes blazed accusation at him.
A quicksand sensation overtook his chest. A sinking down, down, down.
“I see,” she said to the caller. “Thank you very much for your time.” A pause. “All the best.” Another pause. “Good-bye.”
She pushed her phone into her purse and frowned. Then she carried her cup from the shop. He followed, throwing away his drink when he passed the trash can because, if she was mad at him—which she was—then he definitely couldn’t stomach coffee.
She marched into the mouth of a nearby alley, her shoulders stiff beneath the same bright pink sweater she’d worn the day of the farmers market. Brick buildings, dumpsters, and weeds lined the sides of the alley. Above, white clouds that looked like whipped cream blocked the sun.
They faced each other. Her, beautiful. Him, standing very still in his pale blue business shirt and gray suit pants. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
Her eyebrows drew together. “While I was waiting for you, I called the dean of the fine arts school at Georgia Southern to thank him for his interest in Dylan. He was very cordial. During our conversation I asked him how Dylan’s drawings had come to his attention. He told me that his favorite niece’s little boy had been born with a hole in his heart, and that Dr. Grant at the Clinic for Pediatric and Congenital Heart Diseases had performed a fabulously successful surgery. Dylan was brought to the dean’s attention by Dr. Grant himself, who called the dean to alert him to Dylan’s application. The dean informed me that I’m very fortunate to have the esteemed Dr. Grant in my brother’s corner.”
He kept his face impassive. His heart thudded in his eardrums, which was stupid. His heart didn’t thud like this when he was cutting on a child’s aorta.
“I told you about the dean’s email concerning Dylan on Saturday,” she continued, “and you said . . . What did you say? I think you said, ‘Good for him.’ You most definitely did not say that you were the one who’d . . . who’d—” she sliced a hand through the air—“manufactured the dean’s interest in Dylan!”
“I don’t have the power to manufacture anyone’s interest. I simply called the dean to tell him about a promising new recruit.”
“And, no doubt, to ask him to keep us in mind for scholarships.”
“Yes,” he admitted.
Color flared on her cheeks. “So. Not only did you go behind my back to pull some strings, but then you didn’t come clean about your involvement when you had the chance.”
She was blowing this all out of proportion. “I know the college applications have been hard on you and Dylan. When I found out that he’d applied to Georgia Southern and realized I had a contact there, I wanted to do something to help. So I called the dean. But I planned to keep my involvement anonymous—”
“Because you knew I wouldn’t like it. But you got caught.”
“I got caught doing something good for your brother.”
She scowled at him. “Dylan and I are not helpless. We are not incapable. We are not incompetent! We don’t need a Daddy Warbucks to pull strings for us behind our backs!”
“I know you’re not helpless—”
“That’s not what your actions say.” A strand of hair slipped over one eye. She shoved it back. “Do you, with your degrees and your money, pity Dylan and me?”
“No.” But honestly, how could he not pity her? She was supposed to have accepted a full ride to Princeton.
“I think that you do pity us,” she said, reading his mind. “Which annoys me no end because, in case you’d failed to notice, I’m an exceptionally independent person. My job is important and satisfying. Dylan and I are doing fine. We don’t need necklaces or graphing calculators or art supplies or hubcaps or phone calls to deans. My affection can’t be bought. So, please. No more.”
His temper stirred. “I was trying to lend a hand.”
“But you didn’t ask me first before involving yourself in something that pertains to my brother.” She drew herself tall. “I’ve been taking care of him for a long time, and you can trust that I will continue to take care of him. We don’t need your intervention.”
“Everybody needs the help of others sometimes, Leah.”
“I don’t need help from you. At all.”
Sebastian crossed his arms and said nothing.
“Well?” she said, clearly waiting for him to tell her he was sorry.
For making a phone call for her brother’s sake? He wasn’t sorry. “If you think I’m going to apologize, I’m not.”
Without another word, she stalked from the alley and down the sidewalk.
Seething inside, he watched her go.
Turn around, Leah.
She didn’t.
She was leaving. She was going to get in her car and drive back to Misty River. And he was irritated with her, so her departure should be okay with him.
It should be. But it wasn’t. He set his jaw to keep himself from calling out to her and asking her to stay in Atlanta with him for another few hours, months, centuries.
Leah pointed her car toward home.
As the miles passed, the city dropped away. She drove into the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains and then higher as her brain chewed on the events of the weekend the way she’d chew on a piece of taffy that had been mostly delicious but ended with a surprisingly bitter finish.
Fabulous Saturday, with their Halloween dinner at a sky-high restaurant that had as its carpet the lights of Atlanta’s buildings. Their servers had been dressed in costume, and she and Sebastian had shared a dessert named Death by Chocolate.
Wonderful Sunday with church and museums, a movie night at Sebastian’s apartment, and kisses that incinerated the air.
Rocky Monday, which had started out with promise and finished with the realization that Sebastian had been meddling in her affairs.
In her lifetime she’d received one huge advantage—her years at the Program for the Exceptionally Gifted at Clemmons. She’d had no qualms about accepting that gift. And, had she been able to take Princeton up on their offer, she’d have had no qualms about accepting that gift, either.
Back then, she’d been a teenager. Economically disadvantaged. The daughter of a volatile family. She’d been desperate for education and comfortable with the idea that she’d earned her scholarships through merit.
But ever since she’d turned Princeton down, she’d been a citizen of the real world. She couldn’t afford to spend her days in the lofty realms of pure mathematics when she needed to stretch every paycheck in order to keep a boy fed, clothed, sheltered. She taught, graded papers, forced Dylan to eat vegetables, badgered him about turning in his homework. She was the person who haggled with health insurance, called the exterminator, and made mortgage payments.
For ten years, she’d received no advantages. She’d done it the hard way, and she was proud of what she’d accomplished. It humiliated her to think that when Sebastian looked at her, he saw someone in need of assistance.
She was not Sebastian Grant’s charity case. And his non-boyfriend status in no way gave him the right to call the dean of the fine arts program on Dylan’s behalf.
Sebastian had only met Dylan . . . what? Three times? He hardly knew Dylan.
Sebastian hardly knew her.
She hardly knew him.
Only . . .
That wasn’t entirely fair. Or correct. She had a feeling that while it was true that Sebastian hardly knew Dylan, he might know her quite well already. Just like she might know him quite well already.
Bossy. Hard-charging. High maintenance. That’s how Markie, his co-worker at the hospital, had described Sebastian the day of Leah and Dylan’s tour. All true.
Except Markie had also said, “A few of the kids he’s treated have lived mostly because he was so determined that they wouldn’t die.”
Some of the qualities that were trying in a non-boyfriend were to be commended in his exponentially more important role—pediatric heart surgeon.
At every stage of her acquaintance with him, she’d debated whether to move forward. Each time, she’d deemed the next step safe enough to take. Worth taking. And, indeed, her time with Sebastian had been a great deal of fun. So diverting! Through him, she’d learned a lot about herself.
But suddenly—like tree branches coming into view beneath the surface of a lake—she could see the dangers inherent in their relationship that she hadn’t been able to see before.
Her mom was similar to Sebastian in several ways. Mom struggled to trust others. She’d constantly sought and never found satisfaction. Because of those weaknesses, Mom’s marriage and her relationships with her kids had crumbled in the most miserable way possible.
Leah had no desire to subject herself to the pain of an ill-fated relationship. This was an opportune time to bring her extended flirtation with Sebastian to a close.
Assured of the rightness of that choice, she pulled into her garage. A slice of her reflection in the rearview mirror caught her eye. With dismay, she saw that her lower lashes were wet. So was the skin beneath her eyes.
Without realizing it, she’d been crying over the choice she’d just proclaimed to be the right one. For some terrible reason that she didn’t want to examine too closely, her heart felt as though it was ripping down the center.
“Leah,” she whispered scoldingly, whisking away the moisture with her fingertips. She patted her cheeks a little harder than necessary, then rolled her carry-on indoors.
Tess and Rudy had left for their Monday night Bible study group, so she found Dylan alone on the sofa watching a ghastly show about monster trucks.
“Brother of mine!” She gestured for him to stand, then hugged him. He was much too thin. Mental note: Feed him more protein, dairy, and fruit. “Did you miss me?”
“Sure.” Which meant no.
“I brought you a gift.” She knelt to her suitcase and came up with a vintage-style T-shirt that read 404—Atlanta’s area code—across the front.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
He admired the shirt, then slung it over his shoulder. “Hey, next time you leave . . .”
“Yes?”
“Can I stay by myself?”
She bit her bottom lip to keep herself from exclaiming, Not in a million years!
“I don’t need babysitters.”
“Tess and Rudy aren’t your babysitters—”
“They act like it. They were all over me this weekend.”
“That’s because they care about you.”
“I think it’s because you gave them a long list of all the things I’m not allowed to do.”
“I mean . . . Well. The list wasn’t that long.”
“It’s way too long. It’s crazy.” His curls bounced with agitation. “I’ll be eighteen soon.”
“Yes.”
“Have I done anything to make you think I can’t take care of myself? No. I haven’t.”
He made iffy choices in his social life all the time. He hardly ever studied for tests. He’d eat nothing but Cheez-Its if she let him. “When you were in middle school—”
“That was years ago.” His chin set. She could see that he felt passionately about this and yet was making an effort to talk with her about it maturely. “Next year I’m going to go away to school, and then I’ll have total freedom.”
“Right, and between now and then, my job is to ensure you’re ready.”
“You’ve made huge strides.”
“But you don’t let me go to parties. You won’t let me take weekend trips with my friends’ families. You’re always tracking the location of my phone and asking me to come straight home after games and practices. All my friends—every single one—has more freedom than I do. It’s like you don’t trust me.”
“I do trust you. It’s just that I’m trying to keep you safe.”
He studied her, mingled obstinacy and sympathy in his face. “I don’t think you do what you do to keep me safe.”
“What do you mean?”
He remained quiet for several moments. Her autumn three-wick candle, which smelled of pumpkin pancake, burned sedately on the coffee table.
“I think you put all these rules on me because you want control,” he said.
“No. I do what I do because I love you.”
“Okay, sure, you love me. But that’s not why you’re so strict.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “You got stuck with a kid when you were around my age.”
She blinked at him because, of course, he was correct. Yet the thought of his taking custody of a child at his age was abhorrent. He was a kid himself, in no way prepared to take charge of a child. Her eighteen-year-old self and Dylan’s seventeen-year-old self had little in common. By that point in her life, she’d lived away from home for four years. She’d come out of the womb a small but old and serious person. Her parents had ensured that she grew up quickly from there.
But Dylan, and thank God for this, had been afforded the chance to be young. After Mom had left him in her care, Leah had done her best to give him an elementary school experience free from worries graver than memorizing multiplication tables. As a middle school kid, he’d spent chunks of his weekends immersed in video games. As a high school kid, he had the luxury of playing football and hiding in his room and regarding the adults in his life as hopelessly uncool.
“I did not get stuck with you,” she said.
“Yeah you did. You were supposed to go and get your PhD, and it makes me feel like dirt when I think about how you had to take care of me and couldn’t go.”
She stepped to him and held his face in her hands. The soft little boy face had turned firm and angular. But this was still her Dylan. “You’re my favorite person. Please believe me when I tell you that having the chance to take care of you has been the greatest joy of my whole life. Would Princeton have been nice?” A rueful chuckle spilled from her. “Yes. But if I had the choice to make all over again, I would choose you every single time. There’s no contest, Dylan. I got the better bargain.”
He stepped back a few feet, looked toward the TV.
Her hands fell to her sides. “Also, just so we’re really clear on this, you have nothing to feel like dirt about. You weren’t old enough back when Mom left to make a single decision, nor should you have had to. So none of what happened is on you. No one blames you. No one thinks that anything is your fault.”
“Yeah.” He kept his face pointed to the side.
“Really, though. I mean it. . . . Dylan?”
“Yeah.” He sighed. “What I was trying to say is that I think a lot of your freedom got taken away. So even though you talk about trusting God, you’re always trying to control me to make up for the stuff you couldn’t control before.” He met her eyes with a knowing look.
Ouch. He might have hit on a vein of truth there. And it hurt. Over the years, had she started unintentionally yanking away some of the control that rightfully belonged to God and appropriating it for herself?
He ambled toward his cave.
“You don’t need to go,” she said. “We can talk about this more. Or you can finish your show.”
“Nah. I’m done.” He turned into his bedroom and shut the door.
She was left with a candle, a clean house, an open suitcase, and Dylan’s words, which circled around and around her like a whirlpool.