It shook me more than I cared to admit.
That night, I called Keene.
“I think someone’s following me.”
He didn’t laugh. “Tell me exactly what you saw.”
I did. I told him about the car, the man, and his repeated appearances.
“Do you think there’s a correlation?” I asked.
A pause. “It could be. Or the pain might make you more alert than usual. But don’t ignore your instincts. If you see him again, call me right away.”
That didn’t comfort me.
A few days passed, then a week. Keene checked in twice. He said he was finding very little on my mother’s side of the family. It wasn’t an easy lead. He seemed more puzzled than discouraged.
“Either your mother was telling the truth,” he told her over the phone one afternoon, “or she’s spent her whole life making the lie stick.”
“And my father?”
Another pause.
“I’m still digging.”
There was something in his tone that made me straighten my back.
“What did you find?”
“I’d like to confirm a few things first.”
“Keene.”
“Not yet.”
I hated that answer.
That evening, I found myself feeling anger toward my mother in a way that grief hadn’t yet allowed.
What are you hiding from me, even in death?
The call came on a Thursday, just after six.
When my phone rang, Keene’s name appeared on the screen.
I immediately responded: “Please tell me you found something.”
His voice came out quick and tense. “You need to come here immediately.”
I stood up so quickly that my chair rolled back against the wall. “What happened?”
“You have no idea what your mother was hiding from you.”
A cold shiver ran through me. “Tell me right now.”
“I can’t tell you over the phone. Come right now.”
Then he hung up.
I grabbed my coat, purse, and keys. My hands were shaking so badly that I dropped the phone as I tried to put it in my pocket.
I locked the office, took the elevator down, and stepped out into the humid evening air.
The rain lashed my face.
I had just stepped off the curb to look for a taxi when an arm grabbed me from behind.
A hand covered my mouth.
