11
A fter the conversation with Graeme, Brogan didn’t wait for an email from Nigel. Instead, she picked up the phone and dialed his number. She found herself explaining in detail why she needed to know anything he could remember about the woman from Sweden named Britta.
“Do you remember her?”
“Absolutely. No one could forget Britta.”
“Except Dad,” Brogan countered.
“No, I don’t think he did. After he returned to Malibu, he wrote a song about her, a soul-wrenching ballad called ‘Waterfall.’ It took him maybe forty-five minutes to develop the lyrics and the melody. I was there when he wrote it. Remember that one?”
“I do. Tell me what you remember about her , about Britta.”
“Well, for one thing, she had long silky blonde hair that shimmered in the sunlight, almost like spun gold, something you’d read about in a fairy tale. Her eyes were a different shade of blue, a color I’d never seen before. Those eyes seemed to pierce right through to your soul. She had this infectious laughter that could light up a room and a smile that could melt even the coldest of hearts. Everyone on the tour was captivated by her. Britta was a mystery, an enigma that lingered in the memories of those who crossed her path. She was quiet and reserved, yet there was an undeniable allure about her that drew people in. Rory was smitten, infatuated like I’d never seen him before.”
Brogan listened intently, feeling a mix of emotions swirling inside her at the newfound knowledge unfolding.
Nigel went on to describe the relationship as he remembered it. “Your dad was like a lovesick puppy whenever she was around. They had a connection that was hard to miss. And then, one day in Belgium, your mother joined Britta. Those two seemed close. They apparently had known each other for a long time. They did everything together—shopping, sightseeing, and visiting art galleries and museums. Four weeks after Rachel arrived, Britta decided to go back to Sweden.”
“Because she was pregnant?” Brogan pressed, her voice urgent. “With me.”
Nigel hesitated before replying, “There were rumors like that. Yeah. Are you saying you think Britta was your mum and not Rachel?”
“I’m not saying anything. The DNA results prove there are no blood ties to Rachel Brinell at all.”
“I’ll be damned,” Nigel said. “That might explain a lot.”
“Like what?”
Nigel’s voice grew somber. “Look, Rory was drawn to Britta like a moth to a flame from the beginning, and their connection was undeniable. When Britta left, they stayed in contact with each other. Long phone calls well into the night. Difficult since Britta’s English wasn’t so great. After we finished the tour, he flew to Sweden to be with her.”
“Until I was born, right?”
“You’re getting way ahead of things, Brogan. He never specifically came out and told me he was about to become a father. Rumors were all I heard. I felt like he made the decision to go there because he was so hung up on Britta. But once he got there, he mentioned that Rachel was always around whether he liked it or not. She latched onto Britta like a third wheel. Rachel didn’t fit in with the rest of us. You could tell she came from a sophisticated, privileged world because she wouldn’t take no for an answer. Not even from Rory. She wasn’t down to earth like Britta. But Britta, for whatever reason, seemed to worship Rachel, an older woman who seemed more out of place for a groupie. While we were touring, your dad used to tell me how Rachel had influence over Britta. It ticked him off at times.”
Brogan listened intently, hanging on to every word Nigel relayed. It was as if, piece by piece, she was unraveling her own mystery that had been shrouded in darkness for too long.
“So what happened to Britta? I know Rachel ended up with me because she brought me back to Connecticut. I grew up there until that plane crashed when Rory swooped in and brought me to live with him in California. What happened to Britta?”
“I don’t know. That’s the truth. Maybe she gave you away to Rachel. Rory never told me what happened to her. I do know he was sad about it. That’s why none of us asked him about her. We knew you existed and figured the pregnancy rumor had more to do with Rachel than with Britta. Gordon and I figured he must’ve cheated on Britta with Rachel, and that’s why Britta left him in Madrid.”
“Jeez, didn’t anyone ever think to ask him straight out what happened to Britta? What was going on in his life? There’s a huge backstory here, Nigel, and it’s missing a second act, a middle that doesn’t make any sense.”
Nigel sighed. “If it’s any consolation, when Rory returned from Sweden, he was a changed man, at least to me. He seemed burdened and distant as if a storm cloud had settled over his heart and wouldn’t let go. Hence his penning the song ‘Waterfall.’ He acted like a part of him had been left behind somewhere. He and Rachel became like feuding warlords battling for turf. They had heated arguments over you. Oddly, Rory never seemed to win the battle, just a skirmish or two. Yes, he would fly back east to visit you. He would take you places and buy you expensive presents.”
“I remember a lot of those visits.”
“The thing is, after you were born, he never spoke about Britta to me. It was like she had become a forbidden subject, a ghost haunting every corner of his mind.”
Brogan absorbed Nigel’s words, her mind racing with questions and possibilities. “But I’m trying to figure out how Rachel ended up with me if Britta was the one who was pregnant. You see my dilemma?”
Nigel paused, choosing his words carefully. “I can’t say for certain, but I always sensed that there was something there that Rory didn’t want to get out to the world. He loved you unconditionally. That much was clear. But it was almost like Rachel had something on him.”
“That’s perceptive. Do you think she was extorting him? I do remember her threatening to go to the press to get her way. In truth, it was more times than not. She loved holding it over his head—whatever it was.”
“I want you to promise me that if you find Britta, you’ll tell me. You can’t leave me hanging like this. Deal?”
“Deal,” Brogan promised. “And Nigel, thanks for the information. Thanks for leveling with me.”
“I always told you after Rory died that I’d be there for you no matter what. I guess this is one of those times.”
After she hung up, She plopped beside Lucien on the sofa. “I’m with Nigel. This Britta angle might explain way too many of my childhood memories, all the nasty arguments, and the way the two of them pulled me in two different directions. The nasty things I remember Mom, um, Rachel, saying about him. The almost senseless relief after she died when both parties were no longer tearing me into pieces over the little things.”
Lucien nodded, his brow furrowed in thought. “It’s a lot to take in, Brogan. But at least now you have parts of the puzzle beginning to take shape.”
Brogan let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through her hair. “I feel like I’m seeing the light at the end of a dark tunnel. Why didn’t Dad tell me that Rachel wasn’t my mother? He might’ve mentioned it at some point.”
“Who knows why parents keep things from their kids?” Lucien relayed, concern evident in his voice. “We grew up with lies on both sides.”
“That’s true. But I need to find Britta,” Brogan said firmly. “I need to know the truth about my past, about why things unfolded the way they did.”
Lucien reached out and squeezed her hand gently. “You mean you need to know how Rachel ended up bringing a newborn baby back home from her European adventure. Is there any way she could’ve passed you off as belonging to her?”
“With Delia?”
“With everybody in her inner circle,” Lucien cited. “Would Delia have questioned her daughter about who was the real mother? Did Rachel make up a story about being Rory’s lover? Did she lie to Delia and a multitude of other people? If she did, Delia may not know the truth. She may have been hurt for real by your accusations.”
Brogan’s eyes went wide. “That’s a distinct possibility. I’ll fix it. But right now, I’m more concerned about how to find Britta. Without flying to Sweden, who do we know who speaks Swedish? Even an online search of Sweden’s vital statistics, or whatever it’s called there, will be in a foreign language.”
“We’ll find someone who can translate.”
Her face split into a grin. “The sooner the better. Websleuths need a websleuth. Jade might know someone.”
Lucien nodded as he watched her take out her phone to text Jade. He saw the determination on her face. She needed answers, closure, and a sense of identity that had long eluded her. The road ahead seemed uncertain and fraught with challenges, but he knew now—saw it written on her face—she was fully prepared to face whatever surprises lay ahead.
Brogan discovered that finding a Swedish translator, let alone one familiar with genealogy wasn’t easy. But thanks to Jade’s connections in Santa Cruz, she talked to a university professor, Amalie Lockney, who taught Danish and Scandinavian culture for over two decades. Fortunately, Amalie dabbled in family genealogy on the side and was fluent in Sweden and Finland’s regional dialects and other Nordic Germanic languages. Amalie found the situation fascinating and agreed to track down all the Brittas who fit that timeframe and age group.
Once they agreed on a fee, Brogan felt elated. She hung up, knowing she’d made the right move. She angled toward Lucien, who stood at the stove stirring pasta for dinner. “Hiring a professional is the way to go.”
“Now we wait. That’s the hard part.”
“Like waiting for Trish Vosberg to return your call.”
“If I haven’t heard from her by morning, I’m calling every number I have again. I’ll keep calling until—”
“She takes out a restraining order,” Brogan cracked as she dragged a crusty chunk of Italian bread through the spaghetti sauce to give it a taste test. “Yum. That’s tasty. I like it when you cook.”
She leaned into him to nibble his ear.
“You are hungry.”
“I’m in a good mood. Do you realize I’ve made more progress today since learning about the DNA?”
Lucien chuckled at her playful mood, his heart feeling lighter seeing Brogan's spirits lifted. He turned to face her, a twinkle in his eyes. “It’s not easy opening up old wounds, but you’re facing it head-on.”
His heart swelled with affection for this determined woman beside him. He turned off the stove, wrapped his arms around her, and held her close. “I’m proud of you, Brogan. You’re not just sitting back and waiting for answers to come to you. You’re out there seeking the truth, piece by piece.”
Brogan leaned into his embrace, feeling a sense of accomplishment wash over her. “I don’t have much choice. If I sit around and wait—”
A faint ding coming from Lucien’s phone echoed through the room. “I set up a notification if Truthseeker22 replied.”
“It’s after seven o’clock. What happened to Trish Vosberg returning your call during normal business hours like a typical cop does with an unsolved murder? I guess it’s different when it pertains to her sister. I’ll have to remember to tell Birk he was wrong.”
“He’s rarely wrong,” Lucien pointed out as he swiped through to the blog post where the notification had popped up. “Yep. The new comment is from Truthseeker22.”
Lucien’s heart raced as his eyes scanned the words on the screen. The comment was cryptic, as usual, but this time, a subtle shift in tone caught his attention.
If you think you know the killer, meet me at your designated spot tomorrow afternoon at two. Don’t be late. If you’re wasting my time, I’ll know it. I’ve already checked you out. I can tell you’re in way over your head.
“Well, that isn’t very nice,” Brogan remarked, reading the latest comment over Lucien’s shoulder.
“Maybe not, but at least she’s willing to hear us out.”
“I’m beginning to think this isn’t such a good idea,” Brogan muttered, concern lacing her voice. “It feels like we’re walking into a trap.”
“I guess we’ll find out tomorrow one way or another,” Lucien replied, his mind already strategizing the meeting with Truthseeker22. His jaw tightened in anxious determination. “Look, I know it’s risky, but we need to take this chance. Otherwise, we have nothing. If we expect to find Bethany Heywood, it might be the break we’ve been waiting for.”
She gave him a resigned look, knowing that arguing further would be futile. “Fine, but we need to be careful. I don’t trust this cop one bit. If that is indeed who we’re meeting.”
“We’ll be cautious,” he assured her, his eyes reflecting his resolve. “We won’t go in blind. Birk and Jade will be there, watching the whole thing play out.”
“We should have Birk film the meeting.” When he gave her a sharp look, she added, “In California, it isn’t a crime to film a cop. The First Amendment and all that.”
“Not a bad plan.”
Lucien turned his attention back to the stove and dinner. While he got the food ready, Brogan set the table. But her thoughts lingered on the mysterious commenter and the fate of Bethany. “Do you suppose this Trish Vosberg even cares that there’s another victim out there that hasn’t been found? Bethany is one of her own. Why isn’t she beating down the door to locate Bethany?”
“We’ll ask her directly. How’s that sound?”
“Life is a mess, isn’t it?” Brogan relayed as she sat down to dinner.
“Life is often messy,” he agreed as he served up pasta on her plate.
“This tangled web of secrets surrounding my birth is causing me to question everything.”
The air between them crackled with a touch of worry, but underneath it all was a shared purpose to uncover the truth, no matter where it might lead them.
Over dinner, they discussed their plans for the meeting, going over every detail to ensure they were prepared for whatever Truthseeker22 had in store for them.