Her father held her to him, patting her back, then pulled away to look at her. “Blaire’s okay—she’s resting up on this floor. She pulled you out of the fire, you know.”

She wanted to push back—she knew she needed to tell him something, but she couldn’t put her thoughts together, and there was something she needed to know first. “Annabelle?”

“Don’t worry, she’s with Georgina. I called Georgina and asked her to meet me here and take Annabelle while I was with you. I wasn’t sure what kind of shape you’d be in, or if Annabelle would be able to see you. Georgina’s taking her to her house now.”

“Thank God.” She fell in relief against the pillow and looked at her father. “Is the house gone?” she whispered, her voice hoarse and throat sore.

“The damage is pretty extensive, but they got the fire out.”

Kate thought of all the family pictures, notes, and cards from her mother, years and years of memories that might have been lost. At least she and her daughter were safe. That was all that mattered.

“Kate,” her father said gently. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

She told him as much as she could remember, watching as his face grew redder and his brow more furrowed. Suddenly he sprang from the edge of the bed.

“She thinks Mother is her mother.” She waited for the look of shock on her father’s face, but saw something else instead. “Dad, did you hear me? She thinks Mother gave her up for adoption before you were married.”

He looked away, his face white, and then shook his head. “I didn’t know she was the baby,” he whispered.

“What?”

His eyes turned slowly to Kate, filled with sorrow. “Kate, you wanted to know what your mother and I argued about the day she died.” He paced in the small cubicle, finally stopping and sitting again. “She told me that she’d slept with someone else. Just once. One night while we were engaged, and I was in medical school in California. That she’d had a child and given it up. That’s what we were yelling about. She wouldn’t tell me who the father was, or anything else about the child. She said she needed to talk to the other parties first.” His face was red now, and he balled his hands into fists. “I didn’t want you to know. To have your mother’s memory tainted. I was furious.” He paused and took her hand. “I still am, but what’s worse is that I can’t forgive myself for the fact that the last words I spoke to your mother were angry and cruel.”

It couldn’t be true! Her mother had had a one-night stand? There had to be more to the story. But now, with what Blaire was saying . . . there must be some truth to the story somewhere.