the city.
It was a beautiful sunny morning for a drive. And hot. She wore a short white skirt and navy blouse with sandals, but she had her workout clothes in her gym bag in the trunk of her car for her kickboxing class. Regan had signed up both of them for the class, insisting Cordie would love the exercise once she got into it. It was offered twice a week. They normally went on Saturday, but because of a conflict they were going today instead.
The Blacks lived in an older neighborhood of cookie-cutter ranch houses. She found their house number stenciled on the curb and pulled into the narrow driveway. A dog barked when she rang the bell, and she stepped back and waited. A moment later a woman with curly gray hair opened the door. When she saw Cordie, her hand flew to her throat and she gasped. “Oh my God, you have to be her daughter. You’re the spitting image. I swear you’re identical. You could be her twin if she were twenty years younger,” she stammered.
“I look like Natalie?” Cordie asked.
The woman looked confused. “Who?”
Cordie shook her head and smiled. “I think we should start over. Are you Hillary Black?”
“Yes, I am,” she said. “And I know who you are. You’re Simone Taylor’s daughter.”
EIGHT
C ordie was fit to be tied.
“It was all a lie, a big, fat, horrible lie,” she ranted as she paced around Regan’s office. “There is no Natalie Smith. Never was. It was just the name on a fake driver’s license she bought from Hillary for twenty-five dollars so she could go into bars and drink. That’s how they met. Hillary had a nice little sideline going while she was in college. She printed counterfeit driver’s licenses for extra money. Lovely, right?” Hands on hips, she turned to Regan. “Hillary bragged that she was really good at it, too; said it was difficult to tell the difference between the fake and real licenses.”
She paused to take a breath and then continued. “According to Hillary—and God only knows if she’s telling the truth or not—Natalie’s real name is Simone. Simone Taylor. Want to hear something else? Simone was nineteen years old when Hillary met her, and wild, really wild. Men were crazy about her, Hillary told me.”
The pacing started again. Regan sat at her desk watching her friend and waiting for an opportunity to ask questions. She had never seen Cordie so upset, so out of control. Her friend’s cheeks were flushed, and she was sputtering.
“Did you ask Hillary if she knew your father?” She pushed her chair back and stood.
“Yes and no,” Cordie answered. “I asked her if she had ever met Andrew Kane, but I didn’t tell her he was my father. She said no, she had never met him. You know what was really odd? She never asked my name. I tried to introduce myself, but she interrupted to tell a story about Simone. She talked so fast I could barely keep up. Oh, and she said she could tell by looking at me that my mother had married well. How strange was that?”
“Did you have hundred-dollar bills pinned to your shirt again?” Alec asked the question as he walked into the office.
Cordie knew she needed to take a second to calm down and collect her thoughts. She tugged the scarf from her neck, haphazardly folded it, and tossed it on the desk. It slid to the floor, but she didn’t notice. Her sunglasses were on top of her head. She pulled them off and dropped them into her purse, which was perched precariously on the edge of a chair. When she glanced through the double French doors of Regan’s office, she noticed Aiden in the outer room. He was leaning against the reception desk with one ankle crossed over the other, and he had his phone to his ear. His frown indicated he wasn’t pleased with what he was hearing. His side of the conversation was short and not very cordial. She heard him emphatically say, “No,” and nothing else. By the time he finished the call he looked as though he wanted to throw the phone across the room.
It was a beautiful sunny morning for a drive. And hot. She wore a short white skirt and navy blouse with sandals, but she had her workout clothes in her gym bag in the trunk of her car for her kickboxing class. Regan had signed up both of them for the class, insisting Cordie would love the exercise once she got into it. It was offered twice a week. They normally went on Saturday, but because of a conflict they were going today instead.
The Blacks lived in an older neighborhood of cookie-cutter ranch houses. She found their house number stenciled on the curb and pulled into the narrow driveway. A dog barked when she rang the bell, and she stepped back and waited. A moment later a woman with curly gray hair opened the door. When she saw Cordie, her hand flew to her throat and she gasped. “Oh my God, you have to be her daughter. You’re the spitting image. I swear you’re identical. You could be her twin if she were twenty years younger,” she stammered.
“I look like Natalie?” Cordie asked.
The woman looked confused. “Who?”
Cordie shook her head and smiled. “I think we should start over. Are you Hillary Black?”
“Yes, I am,” she said. “And I know who you are. You’re Simone Taylor’s daughter.”
EIGHT
C ordie was fit to be tied.
“It was all a lie, a big, fat, horrible lie,” she ranted as she paced around Regan’s office. “There is no Natalie Smith. Never was. It was just the name on a fake driver’s license she bought from Hillary for twenty-five dollars so she could go into bars and drink. That’s how they met. Hillary had a nice little sideline going while she was in college. She printed counterfeit driver’s licenses for extra money. Lovely, right?” Hands on hips, she turned to Regan. “Hillary bragged that she was really good at it, too; said it was difficult to tell the difference between the fake and real licenses.”
She paused to take a breath and then continued. “According to Hillary—and God only knows if she’s telling the truth or not—Natalie’s real name is Simone. Simone Taylor. Want to hear something else? Simone was nineteen years old when Hillary met her, and wild, really wild. Men were crazy about her, Hillary told me.”
The pacing started again. Regan sat at her desk watching her friend and waiting for an opportunity to ask questions. She had never seen Cordie so upset, so out of control. Her friend’s cheeks were flushed, and she was sputtering.
“Did you ask Hillary if she knew your father?” She pushed her chair back and stood.
“Yes and no,” Cordie answered. “I asked her if she had ever met Andrew Kane, but I didn’t tell her he was my father. She said no, she had never met him. You know what was really odd? She never asked my name. I tried to introduce myself, but she interrupted to tell a story about Simone. She talked so fast I could barely keep up. Oh, and she said she could tell by looking at me that my mother had married well. How strange was that?”
“Did you have hundred-dollar bills pinned to your shirt again?” Alec asked the question as he walked into the office.
Cordie knew she needed to take a second to calm down and collect her thoughts. She tugged the scarf from her neck, haphazardly folded it, and tossed it on the desk. It slid to the floor, but she didn’t notice. Her sunglasses were on top of her head. She pulled them off and dropped them into her purse, which was perched precariously on the edge of a chair. When she glanced through the double French doors of Regan’s office, she noticed Aiden in the outer room. He was leaning against the reception desk with one ankle crossed over the other, and he had his phone to his ear. His frown indicated he wasn’t pleased with what he was hearing. His side of the conversation was short and not very cordial. She heard him emphatically say, “No,” and nothing else. By the time he finished the call he looked as though he wanted to throw the phone across the room.
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