Barbara Phinney - Fatal Secrets

She bit her lip. “I don’t know. I’ve only ever seen one photo of her and I don’t have it. It’s hard to see a resemblance to yourself, I think.”

Of course, she knew of another photo on its way to her. Zane may be able to confirm a resemblance.

Zane glanced around the parking lot, before zeroing in on her. “You want me to take on your case, but it’s obvious that you’re holding some things back. And the look on your face after you received that phone call this morning told me you didn’t know what to do. Were you warned about me?”

“No! Well, not exactly.” Boy, he was good. He was able to read her like a book. Should she tell him anything? Jackson had warned her of a leak. Anyone, including Zane, could use what they’d learn from her to find her mother, or inform the Mob, she wagered. How could she know for sure that he wouldn’t tell the Martino family?

But what could Zane learn from her? She didn’t have anything but a name, an old address from a foster home her mother had lived in, where that other photo had been taken, and very little else. She doubted her mother would use her real name and she certainly wouldn’t contact her old foster home again. Kristin only wanted the photo because it was of her mother and had been offered to her.

Zane tilted his head. “I can help you find your mother. So why won’t you tell me anything?”

If she found her mother, she reasoned to herself, she could warn her about the Martinos, about what Jackson had said. They could hide together, taking that time to get to know each other again. It would be so wonderful, and everything she’d dreamed of since her friend Jake had opened her father’s safe and she’d found the adoption papers.

She swallowed. “I’ve been told to be very careful.”

“Because of the Martino family? Why did you go to the trial then?”

“I had to see the man whose father had caused my mother to hide. But no one recognized me. I lightened my hair, and wore tinted glasses. And due to the security, those allowed into the courtroom were escorted in and out through a side door, and protected from the public.”

“But afterward, you came straight back here?”

“No.” She shook her head, understanding what he meant. “Jackson McGraw advised against that. After the trial, I wanted to thank one of the witnesses for the prosecution. He took me to the FBI building in the city. I talked to her there.”

“Who was she?”

“Olivia Jarrod. She was the star witness in that trial.”

“What did she say?”

“To me? Not much. I just thanked her for doing her best to get rid of the Martino family. Then I told her that I’d been separated from my mother for about twenty-one years and she said she hoped I would find my mother someday. The conversation didn’t last long. She didn’t want to stick around, and I didn’t, either.”

“So then you came straight home?”

She shook her head. “Jackson and I decided that I should take a flight to Maine to spend some time with a college friend. So I did. We climbed Mount Katahdin. Then we toured the East Coast for a week. After that, I returned here.”

Her tone changed as she drilled a stare into him. They were sitting in his car. Around them, the campus had gone quiet. “Please, Zane, I can’t tell you much, because I don’t know much.”

Zane’s look darkened, as if he disagreed with her. But thankfully, he said nothing. She continued, faster than before. “But I need to find my mother. Let’s have some lunch. We’ll talk there.”

She hadn’t really expected Zane to agree, but he did, asking for the name of the restaurant. A swell of accomplishment filled her. He was willing to talk to her, perhaps to engender trust, or perhaps because he needed to talk, maybe about his own fruitless search. She didn’t care about the reason. Suddenly, being with him warmed her, gave her a sense of connection.

At the restaurant, they found a booth in the back and ordered the daily special of quesadillas. After scribbling out their order, the waitress plunked down a large bowl of nacho chips and salsa. Kristin dug in. Catching Zane’s eye, she shrugged. “I’m hungry. And when I’m stressed, I eat. I’m not one to starve myself, I’m afraid.”

“Don’t apologize. I think it’s normal.” He grimaced. “You may be a bit naïve, but at least you’re not the thin, high-strung sort.”

She lifted her eyebrows, wondering who was like that in his life that brought such a derisive comment. “There’s a compliment in there, I’m sure. I just can’t see it right now.”

She picked up another chip and munched on it. At least he was talking. The stress of the call he’d made seemed to be wearing him down, loosening the cool grit that held him tightly together.

“It is a compliment. And you’re honest about it.” He tightened his jaw. “Believe me, I appreciate honesty.”

Why shouldn’t he? She stemmed her curiosity by changing the subject. “My church loves to eat. We’ll use any excuse for a potluck lunch. No thin, high-strung ladies there.” She pointed a corn chip at him. “You should come. There’ll be snacks after the service this week.”

Her offer slipped out automatically. She’d asked many of her college friends to church. Some had come, most had declined. Sleeping in on Sundays was too important to them.

He looked away, his jaw tight. “Once upon a time, I believed in God and all that. But the price was too high. You have to be perfect, and that’s not me. In fact, if I have to be as good as my father thought he was, I’d rather not be a Christian at all.”

She stopped chewing. The bitterness in his words bounced around their booth. She’d never heard such cold condemnation. What would her parents say to this?

Suddenly, the ache of grief weighed down her heart. Her parents would have known the right answer. They were wonderfully compassionate. They’d taken her in twenty-one years ago, finding themselves with a small child after many years alone. It must have been hard for them to keep up with a busy little toddler.

But enough of that. What could she say to Zane? He seemed so disappointed with God. How could she take that away?

She couldn’t. Nor was it any of her business, no matter how sad it made her feel. With a sip of water, she swallowed the corn chip and hastened to change the subject. “You said you have a brother. Where are your parents?”

“Dead. Both my birth parents and my adoptive ones. I was adopted shortly after I was born,” he told her tersely.

“So what clues led you here?”

“While I was living in upstate New York, I did a data search for the last name Kendall.” He spelled the name. “My adoptive mother only ever told me the last name and only after a good deal of pressure. She was afraid of my adoptive father.”

His jaw had tightened again, she noticed.

As if catching her curiosity, he cleared his throat and took a chip. “Anyway, I got a break once with some online photos from Westbrook University. So I decided to move here and set up my business.”

He dipped a chip into the salsa. “The lead today turned out to be no good.”

Their meals arrived and when the server left them, Kristin stared at her food.

She snapped her attention back him, remembering why the name sounded familiar. “What did this Kendall guy study?”

“Art, specializing in oils, I’m told. I don’t even know if he is my brother. He’s already left the area.”

Kristin set down her glass of water. “There’s a painting in one of the lecture rooms that’s signed ‘Bobby Kendall’ with that same spelling. It could be his. It’s of Lindbergh Lake, about eighty miles from here. It’s this multiseasonal three-sectioned painting, so the artist would have needed to go there frequently to plan his work. Maybe he’s there now.”