“This is so hard for me.” She wrings her hands and looks at the ceiling, then focuses her glistening eyes on mine. “I think—I mean, I’m pretty sure—Mr. Cage, I’m pretty sure you’re my father.”

CHAPTER 33

I’m pretty sure you’re my father.

Jenny’s words hang in the air like ozone after a lightning strike. My discomfort escalates to panic in a fraction of a second. This is the root of the strange fascination Caitlin picked up that first night. It’s something I’ve heard about my whole life, orphaned or adopted children convincing themselves that the father who abandoned them is some famous man.

“Look, miss—” I grope for her last name, then realize I never knew it.

“Doe,” she says. “Isn’t that pathetic? That’s my last name. Jennifer Doe. It’s on my birth certificate.”

I’m backing toward the door, which leads to the stairs and the second floor and the spiral staircase and the restaurant and sanity. “I think we’d better go back down.”

She holds up her hands in supplication, pleading for my attention. “I don’t want anything from you. And I’m not crazy. Please believe me. I’m scared to death right now. I’m so scared. I just want to know who I am!”

Hot, clear water bubbles out of the coffeemaker, for tea that will never be made.

“I can’t help you with that question, Jenny.”

“If you’d listen to me for two minutes, you’ll know you can.”

My hand is on the doorknob.

“Livy Marston is my mother!”

This stops me.

“I was born in February of 1979.”

My brain is working backward to the point of conception. February, January, December—oh hell, just go back twelve months and add three. If Jenny is telling the truth, she was conceived in May of 1978. The month Livy and I graduated high school.

“My birth certificate proves it,” she says in a defensive voice.

I drop my hand from the knob. “Let me see.”

She goes to the bookshelf, takes down my second novel, and opens it to the flyleaf. From there she removes a white sheet of paper, which she holds out to me. I don’t look at her face as I reach for it. If I did, I know I would be searching for similarities to my own.

The birth certificate looks authentic. Issued by the state of Louisiana, the city of New Orleans. The child’s name is listed as Jennifer Doe. What nearly stops my heart is what is printed on the line for Mother. Right there in black and white is the name Olivia Linsford Marston.

The line beside Father is blank.

“Jesus God,” I murmur.

“It was a privately arranged adoption,” Jenny says. “Set up before I was ever born. The adopting parents wanted the name Jennifer on the birth certificate.”

My heart is skipping beats.