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A sob escaped her. In the middle of the living room, she let her purse drop to the floor, her hands suddenly nerveless.
“They wouldn’t lie,” she said aloud, her voice cracking.
Why was she so upset? So scared? She trusted them. She did. He was crazy!
Across the room, she saw the red message light blinking on her answering machine. Heart pounding, Carrie went to it, touched the play button.
“Ms. St. John, this is Mark Kincaid. When you’re ready to talk, my phone number is…”
With a cry of rage and terror, she hit Delete.
CHAPTER FOUR
HOW COULD SHE barge into her parents’ house and demand, “Am I adopted? Did you lie to me?” It would be like asking the man you loved whether he was having an affair. There was no going back from the question.
Soften it. Laugh and say, “I know you’d have told me if I were adopted, so I feel silly even bringing the subject up, but… I am your daughter, right? Biologically as well as legally?”
No. She wouldn’t ask. She didn’t have to. Why on earth was she letting this guy she didn’t even know shake her confidence in who she was?
Carrie moaned and rolled over in bed, pulling a pillow over her head. At this speed, she was going to have to call in sick in the morning. It would be hard to function without any sleep at all.
Pillow pressed to her face, she thought, Okay. Be logical. Analyze.
This Mark Kincaid. Was he really a private investigator? Or was he some con artist pulling a scam, or even some guy using the story to approach her for some creepy reason?
She took the pillow from her face and stared at the dark ceiling. She didn’t like any of those choices. Being the target of a con artist was scary, and a creepy stalker even worse.
If he was legit, at least she wouldn’t have to keep wondering whether her dead bolt lock was really adequate. But in another way, that possibility was the most frightening of all.
With a sigh, she flicked on her bedside lamp and sat up, feeling with her feet for her slippers. She should have done some research before she went to bed, but since she wasn’t even close to sleepy, she might as well do it now, instead of spending all night stewing.
Leaving her computer booting, she heated water in the microwave for a cup of herbal tea. Chamomile was supposed to make you sleepy, right? Then, with the teabag steeping, she went online and typed, Mark Kincaid—Private Investigator.
Several dozen options popped up immediately and she thought, Oh God, he is legit. There were references to articles in the Seattle Times, the Post-Intelligencer, the Everett Herald. Apparently P.I.s belonged to associations, like everyone else. Who knew there was a Pacific Northwest Association of Investigators, a Washington Association and even a National Association of Investigative Specialists? There were Web sites that sounded like they belonged to adoption search organizations, referencing investigators who specialized in finding birth parents or adoptees. And Kincaid Investigations in Seattle had its own Web site.
She clicked on that one and found that Mark Kincaid and his partner, Gwendolyn Mayer, offered a full range of investigative services, including domestic/infidelity, surveillance, skip tracing, workman’s comp fraud and attorney services. Adoption searches was a specialty.
No photos of the partners, for good reason, she supposed; P.I.s hardly wanted to advertise their faces, considering that following people and doing stakeouts was their line of work.
Mark Kincaid, she read, had been a Seattle Police Department homicide detective while his partner, Gwendolyn Mayer, had a ten year career with the Baltimore Police Department before coming west to join Kincaid Investigations.
Carrie printed the page as well as the one about adoption searches.
She sat back in her chair, trying to think calmly. So, Mark Kincaid probably was who he said he was. Unless somebody was using his name… Unlikely, she decided, remembering the way he’d watched people at the mall. He’d scanned the crowd with the eyes of a cop.
All right, he was legit. But he was wrong. Even homicide detectives-slash-private investigators could be wrong, couldn’t they? She wondered how they got enough information to find out that Baby John Doe had become, say, Baby Ronald Smith. Weren’t records traditionally sealed? She realized she knew very little about the issue. She’d never even had a friend who was adopted.
She clicked on one of the Web sites about adoption searches and read several short articles, followed by a checklist for the search.
Locate your amended birth certificate, she read.
How would you know if your birth certificate was amended? She was reasonably sure she had hers somewhere; she’d needed it to get a passport to take a school trip to Spain when she was in high school and then to go to London for a week with her parents when her father spoke at a conference there.
Apply for medical records from the hospital where you were born.
She didn’t actually know what hospital she’d been born in. With a flutter of panic, she tried to remember whether her mother had ever talked about her birth, or about labor, or even pregnancy.
Formally petition the court to open your adoption records.
She wouldn’t have to do that. If she was the right Carrie St. John, somebody had done the searching for her.
A sister. And he’d said she had a brother, too.
Her heart lurched with anxiety. Ridiculous. He was wrong, that’s all. He had to be wrong. Maybe tomorrow she should call him, hear the story and explain where he’d made his mistake.
Carrie turned off the computer again, rinsed out the mug and put it in the dishwasher, switched off the lights and went back to bed.
She almost managed to put the whole thing out of her mind by focusing on her job search, on where she wanted to live, on trying to decide whether she missed Craig at all.
But at the edge of sleep, when her guard relaxed, she thought, It’s true that I don’t look like Mom or Dad. Not really.
And when she did sleep, her dreams were restless, filled with people who told her they were her mother and father and sister and brother, and even a man who said he was her husband. Faces kept changing, and in bewilderment she started tapping women on their shoulders and, when they turned, asking, “Are you my mom?”
When her alarm went off, she was so disoriented it took her a minute to realize why it had gone off, where she was, why she was supposed to get up.
As tired as she was, she still didn’t have the slightest desire to go back to sleep. She showered, dressed and went to work.
There, grateful for the privacy her cubicle offered, she tried to concentrate. Midmorning, her phone rang.
“Hi,” her mother said. “I was just thinking about you and thought I’d call.”
“Mom.” Her mother never called her at work. “Is something wrong?”
“What would be wrong?” She gave a tinkle of laughter that sounded artificial. “I just wondered if you’d given notice, and if you’ve seen Craig again, and, oh,” she seemed to hesitate, then said in a rush, “if you’re up to anything new.”
“No, I haven’t given notice yet.” And she didn’t intend to today, either, Carrie realized. Right now, this job felt safe, comfortable. Stepping into the unknown wasn’t very appealing at the moment.
“Craig and your dad had a talk yesterday. I thought perhaps he’d have called you.”
“Mom, I can’t imagine Craig ever begging. And I was pretty firm with him.”
“Are you sure you’re not…well, just panicking at the idea of commitment? That’s not an uncommon reaction, you know.”
Was that what this was about? Her mother’s disappointment that she was rejecting the perfect son-in-law? A doctor, even; he and Daddy would have so much in common.
“I worry about you living alone. You do have an unlisted phone number, don’t you? Not just unpublished?”
So that’s what this was about, Carrie thought in shock. Her mother was afraid somebody would be trying to call. Somebody like Mark Kincaid.
She heard herself say automatically, “I’m pretty sure it’s unlisted, Mom. You don’t have to worry.”
Am I your daughter? Her mouth formed the words, but she didn’t say them. Eyes squeezed shut, Carrie felt dampness seep from them. Mommy, tell me the truth!
“I’d…better go,” she lied instead, her voice thick. “Somebody’s waiting to talk to me.”
Somehow she finished the day at work. By the time she got home, it was after five. Maybe Kincaid Investigations stayed open until five-thirty or six. She could at least leave a message.
Assuming she wanted to talk to him at all. The phone in her hand, she closed her eyes, steadying herself. She wanted, oh so desperately, to reject out of hand everything he’d said and the doubt he’d stirred in her, but she couldn’t. Her mother had sounded so…odd. Maybe, most of all, Carrie was unsettled by the knowledge she’d always lived with—that she was quite different from her parents, in looks, temperament, tastes and abilities.
Of course, kids weren’t clones of their parents. The genetic mix that made up any human being was complex. She’d never worried about it before. But now…
She dialed the number she’d taken from the Web site, listened to the options, pressed 3 for “Leave a message for Mark Kincaid” and then said in a rush, “Mr. Kincaid, this is Carrie St. John. I’m sorry I ran out on you. I’m still pretty sure that I’m not the person you’re looking for, but I’m willing to hear what you have to say.” She left her phone numbers, work and home, and hung up.
She had trouble deciding on anything for dinner, trouble figuring out what she wanted to do for the evening. She felt restless, anxious, jumpy. She wanted to talk to somebody, but couldn’t decide who. Stacy, a friend from nursing school, who hardly knew Carrie’s parents? Ilene, her best friend from childhood, who did know them? So well, in fact, that Ilene had gone to Carrie’s mom for comfort when her own parents had split up.
In the end, she didn’t call anybody. It felt disloyal to express doubts based on no evidence whatsoever. She wasn’t even entirely sure why she was taking this so seriously, why she was so upset about it. She should wait until she had some proof one way or the other.
Nothing on TV looked interesting. She changed channels, unable to care about fictional storylines or the absurd drama on reality shows. She switched the set off, cleaned her bathroom, picked up a People magazine and lost interest in it, too. She should have gone to the health club, but now if she worked out she wouldn’t be able to sleep.
The phone rang, and she jumped. She hesitated, then picked it up. Don’t be Mom or Dad, she prayed.
“Ms. St. John? This is Mark Kincaid again.”
“Oh!” she said, absurdly. “Did you get my message?”
“Yeah, I did. I sometimes check them from home. Is this too late for you?”
“No! No. I’m glad you called. I keep thinking about what you said, and…” She shrugged, even though he couldn’t see her. “I just wished I’d let you explain. That’s all.”
“I’d prefer to talk to you in person.”
Knowing she was crazy to suggest it, she still said, “You could come over. I won’t be going to bed for a while.”
He was nice enough to sound regretful. “I’m afraid I can’t. I’ve put my son to bed and it’s too late in the evening to get a sitter.”
“Oh.” Carrie was conscious of a funny mix of emotions. If he had a son, that probably meant he was married. She hadn’t consciously thought of him as someone who would interest her—that was hardly the point—but now she was just a little disappointed. At the same time, she was actually relieved, because the fact that he was a good husband and father meant he was safe.
“Can I meet you at lunchtime tomorrow?” he asked.
“I work in Bellevue…” She stopped, suddenly self-conscious. “I suppose you know everything about me, don’t you?”
“No, actually, I don’t,” he said. “I could have learned more, but once I had your address and phone number, I didn’t look for background. I was hoping you’d want to meet Suzanne…”
“Suzanne?” she interrupted. “Is that my… I mean, is she your client?”
“Yes. Suzanne Chauvin.”
“It sounds French.”
“You could be French,” he pointed out.
Her stomach knotted. She could be. It wasn’t just the fact that neither of her parents were brown-eyed that made her look different from them. It was the golden tone to her skin, the dark, crackling wavy mass of her hair, her quick movements, her petite stature. Breathing shallowly, she thought, I could be French. She didn’t look like a St. John, not like her father did, with his patrician features and natural reserve.
“Yes,” she said, past a lump in her throat. “I suppose I do.”
“In fact,” his voice was gentle, “you look extraordinarily like your sister.”
Her sister. Oh God. In full fledged panic, she said, “Can we talk about this tomorrow instead?”
They agreed on a restaurant and time. She hung up with the terrifying knowledge that she was taking an irretrievable step.
HE MADE A POINT of getting there before her; he invariably did the same at any appointment. Paranoia, no doubt. He liked to look over the surroundings, choose a seat with the best possible vantage point.
He saw her the minute she arrived. The hostess waylaid her, then led her toward his table.
Carrie St. John did bear a remarkable resemblance to her sister, no question. At the same time, she was distinctly her own person.
Neither were tall women, both under five foot four inches. Suzanne was more curvaceous, Carrie slimmer, probably able to go braless. Both had dark eyes and dark hair, but Suzanne’s was smooth and the younger sister’s unruly.
Mark was made uncomfortable to realize that, while Suzanne didn’t attract him, Carrie did. He didn’t even know why. He did know he couldn’t do a damn thing about it, certainly not while he was acting as go-between.
He stood when she approached. “Ms. St. John.”
“Make it Carrie, please.” She took the seat across the table from him and thanked the hostess.
He inclined his head. “Carrie it is.” He indicated her menu. “I see the waitress already on her way. You might want to look that over before we talk.”
She flipped it open, scanned and was able to order a moment later. Then she took a visible breath, lifted her chin and asked, “Why do you think I’m this Suzanne’s sister?”
He opened the folder that sat beside his place and took out a copy of the adoption decree, with her birth name and the names of the adoptive parents highlighted.
Her hand trembled slightly when she took it from him. Her face actually blanched when she looked at it, and he tensed, thinking she might faint. But she only drew a shuddery breath and kept staring at the highlighted names.
When she finally lifted her head, her eyes were dilated, unseeing. “If this is true… Why wouldn’t they have told me?” she whispered.
“Because they so desperately wanted you to be theirs. Maybe they intended to when you got older, then never found the right moment. It would have gotten more and more difficult, as time went by. Maybe they pretended so hard that you’d been born to them that they almost fooled themselves. Maybe they were just afraid.”
She clung pitifully to the one word. “Afraid? Of what?”
“Losing you,” he said simply. “Adoptive parents often feel insecure in a lot of ways. At the backs of their minds is the fear that birth parents might suddenly spring up and want their baby back. Beyond that is the fear that you, the child, won’t love them the same way you would if they were your ‘real’ parents. I’m sure you’ve heard the nature versus nurture argument. Adoptive parents convince themselves that nurture wins. Genes don’t matter nearly as much as experience. They believe they can make you their child in every way.”
“But…they weren’t completely successful.” She sounded heartbroken. “I know I frustrated them sometimes.”
“Yeah.” He watched her with compassion, wishing he hadn’t been the one to bring that terrible unhappiness to her face. “It’s healthier for everyone if the adoptive parents acknowledge that their children are a kind of amalgam. If they could laugh and say, ‘Oh, your birth mom must have been a procrastinator, too,’ or, ‘Maybe your birth father was artistic like you are, because we sure aren’t.’”
“You make my parents sound as if they’re selfish.” Before he could respond, she said with quick anger, “They were selfish.”
“Our food’s here,” he warned her, voice low.
