“No.”
“But it worked briefly.”
I looked at him.
“Why were they photographing you?”
“People have been speculating about my personal life since a magazine published a story about my engagement.”
“You’re engaged?”
The question came out too quickly.
He noticed.
Something almost amused entered his eyes.
“I was.”
“What happened?”
“She ended it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. We had become very good at appearing happy in photographs.”
I understood that too well.
My marriage had looked best during the months it was already ending.
Marcus glanced toward Annie.
“She is asleep again.”
“She has had an eventful day.”
“So have you.”
I opened the back door.
“Thank you for standing up for us on the plane.”
“You don’t have to thank me for that.”
“I do. People usually pretend not to notice.”
His expression softened.
“I noticed.”
The words stayed between us.
Then Daniel called his name from across the garage.
Marcus reached into his coat and removed a card.
His personal number had been written on the back.
“Call if anything feels wrong.”
“Your lawyer already gave Rachel his card.”
“This one is not for legal emergencies.”
“What kind is it for?”
His gaze held mine.
“Any kind.”
Before I could answer, he stepped back.
Rachel waited until we had pulled onto the expressway before speaking.
“You like him.”
“I met him four hours ago.”
“That was not a denial.”
“I am recently divorced, unemployed, carrying a baby, and apparently connected to fourteen million dollars that I did not know existed.”
“So your timing is imperfect.”
“My timing is catastrophic.”
Rachel smiled.
“I still think he likes you.”
I looked out the window.
Chicago rose around us in dark brick buildings, glass towers, traffic, and late-afternoon haze.
“This is not a romantic comedy.”
“No. In a romantic comedy, your hair would have looked better in the airport photograph.”
I laughed despite myself.
It was the first real laugh I had managed all day.
Rachel’s apartment was on the third floor of a narrow building in Lincoln Square. She had prepared the small guest room with a crib, folded blankets, and a vase of grocery-store flowers.
The sight of it made me cry.
Not because it was beautiful.
Because someone had expected us.
Rachel hugged me while Annie pulled at the flowers.
“You are safe here,” she said.
For the next two hours, we tried to create normalcy.
We fed Annie mashed banana and noodles. I unpacked enough clothes for the night. Rachel ordered soup from a restaurant downstairs.
The security officers remained outside in an unmarked car.
At eight thirty, Annie finally fell asleep.
Rachel and I sat at the kitchen table with the Hartwell documents spread between us.
“You really never knew your father worked in technology?” she asked.
“Never.”
“What did your mother say about him?”
“That he was kind. That he loved jazz. That he hated snow.”
“Anything about his work before you were born?”
“No.”
Rachel picked up the altered birth record.
“Why change your birthday?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe the February date belongs to someone else.”
“The certificate has my name.”
“That does not guarantee it was originally yours.”
I looked at her.
“What are you suggesting?”
“Nothing. I’m trying to understand.”
My phone vibrated.
Marcus.
I stared at the screen.
Rachel smiled and stood.
“I need to examine the contents of my refrigerator very carefully.”
“You own the refrigerator.”
“And yet mysteries remain.”
She left the kitchen.
I answered.
“Hello?”
“Are you settled?”
“Yes.”
“Any problems?”
“Only the usual ones involving hidden fortunes and false birth records.”
“I should not have asked such a broad question.”
His voice made the room feel warmer.
“I’m sorry your first day in Chicago became this.”
“You did not create the Hartwell file.”
