Oak and Dagger by Dorothy St. James

and you still can’t throw it away? Have you at least talked to Jack about it? Have you even shown it to him?” Alyssa asked.
    â€œEr . . . I haven’t had the chance.”
    â€œHaven’t had the chance? That’s the excuse you’re going to use?” Alyssa quirked her already arching brow. She’d graduated top of her class from Yale Law School and could outdebate the President. “And how long have the two of you been dating?”
    â€œI wouldn’t exactly call going on a couple of dinner dates with Jack as ‘dating.’ He hasn’t even invited me to his house. Of course, he’s been busy traveling with the President.”
    â€œBut he was with you late into the night last night?”
    â€œWe were at the hospital with Gordon’s wife. It wasn’t the time or place to talk about murderous fathers.”
    â€œAre you going to see Jack today?”
    â€œI don’t know.” Jack was scheduled to be on duty at the White House, although that didn’t necessarily mean I’d get to see him.
    â€œThis thing with your dad is obviously eating at you, Casey.” Alyssa waved her coffee mug like a magic wand. “
Talk
to Jack.”
    I wanted to talk to Jack about these things. Nothing reported in the newspaper article would surprise him. He’d already read the extensive background check required for my security clearance. My father’s history must be in there.
    But what if he knew something about my father I wasn’t ready to hear? Wasn’t it better to pretend James Calhoun didn’t exist? That’s what I’d done for a quarter century, and my life had been good. I’d been whole.
    I barely remembered the life I’d lived before my grandmother Faye had rescued me. It wasn’t until this past spring when I’d found a dead body in Lafayette Square that the door to those repressed memories had been blown wide open.
    I started to fold the article back into a small square, but Alyssa snatched it out of my hands. She frowned as she read it for the first time.
    A fresh wave of panic hit me. Although I’d told her about it, I hadn’t let her read the article.
    â€œThis doesn’t make sense.” She stabbed the brittle paper with the tip of her painted nail. “Wasn’t your family living under an assumed name at the time of your mother’s murder?”
    â€œYes,” came my strangled answer. I didn’t want to go back to that time. Not with Alyssa. Not with anyone.
    â€œAnd didn’t it take several years for officials to figure out who you really were and get you to your grandmother?” she pressed.
    I swallowed hard and then nodded. I’d spent nearly two years in foster care, being shuttled from home to home, never really given an opportunity to grieve or heal.
    â€œSo why in the world would the newspaper report that
James Calhoun
killed his wife? How did the reporter know his name or that he was even your mother’s husband for that matter if the police didn’t know it?”
    â€œPerhaps the police—”
    â€œNo, something isn’t right here. Something doesn’t add up. You should have showed this to me sooner . . . or to Jack. Oh, I can tell by the look on your face you’re not going to talk to Jack about this.”
    She whipped out her cell phone with dizzying speed and punched speed dial. “Barry, sweetie. Did I wake you?” A wicked smile spread across her lips. “Yeah, I liked that, too. But that’s not why I called. I need a favor.”
    While Alyssa explained to what sounded like her current boy toy that she wanted him to run a trace on James Calhoun and how the police connected him to my mother’s murder so many years ago, I protested. Not that it made any difference. Once Alyssa gets an idea in her head, there’s very little anyone can do to change it.
    I eased the article out from between her