There’d been other messages as well. One from a former girlfriend, another from a casual acquaintance who wanted to borrow money. A Chicago buddy needed to know if Mat was moving back to the Windy City so he could sign him up for their old ice hockey league. Four of his seven younger sisters wanted to talk to him, which was nothing new, since Mat had been in charge of them from the time he was a kid growing up in that tough Slovak neighborhood.

Mat had been the only male left after his father had walked away. His grandmother had kept house while his mother had worked fifty hours a week as a bookkeeper. This arrangement had left nine-year-old Mat in charge of his seven younger sisters, two of whom were twins. He’d struggled through his childhood hating his father for being able to do what Mat couldn’t—walk away from a house that held too many females.

The final few years before his escape from the Hell House of Women had been especially bad. His father had died by then, putting an end to the fantasy Mat had entertained that he’d come back and take charge. The girls were growing older and more temperamental. Somebody was always getting ready to have her period, going through her period, getting over her period, or sneaking into his room late at night in quiet hysterics because her period was late, and he was supposed to figure out what to do about it. He loved his sisters, but being responsible for them had suffocated him. He’d promised himself when he finally got away that he’d turn his back on family life forever, and except for the short, stupid time with Sandy, that’s exactly what he’d done.

The last call on his voice mail had come from Sid Giles, the producer of Byline. It was another plea for Mat to come back to the L.A. tabloid television show he’d left last month, but Mat Jorik had sold out his credibility as a journalist once, and he’d never do it again.

“. . . first step is to bring me a copy of your Judgment for Dissolution of Marriage. I need proof that you were divorced.”

He returned his attention to the attorney. “I’ve got proof, but it’ll take me a while to get my hands on it.” He’d left L.A. so fast that he’d forgotten to empty out his safe-deposit box. “It’ll be quicker if I get a blood test. I’ll do it this afternoon.”

“ DNA test results take several weeks. Besides, there’ll have to be proper authorization before the children can be tested.”

Forget that. Mat wasn’t going to have those birth certificates come back to bite him in the ass. Even though it wouldn’t be hard to prove he was divorced, he wanted the blood tests to back him up. “I authorize it.”