Chapter 20
Twenty
Henry
I look at Jason, my head slightly cocked.
That question about finding my mother? It came out of nowhere.
“You could say I’m pretty serious about finding her,” I say.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I think I am. If only to see her. Find out about her family. It would be good to know where I came from. I’m lucky that I haven’t inherited my paternal grandfather’s issues, but who knows what’s hiding on my birth mother’s side?”
“Henry, I already told you that—”
“I know, I know.” I hold up a hand. “But yeah, I think I want to know. Our family has a bunch of private investigators on retainer. I’ll just contact one of them.”
“You may not need to,” he says.
I lift my eyebrows.
“I’ve gotten pretty good at investigating,” he says. “If you know her name and her approximate age, we shouldn’t have any trouble finding her.”
I scratch my head. “You’re probably right. Everything can be found online these days.”
“Of course, if you want to use one of your private investigators, you certainly can. They’ll have access to things I don’t.”
I wrinkle my forehead. “You could be right. But if I do that, my father and my uncles might find out what I’m up to. And if my mom—my real mom, the one who raised me—found out about it, she’d be heartbroken.”
“If you want to be discreet, any investigator worth his salt will keep everything private for you. Even if they work for your family.”
“True… But when it comes to the Steels, secrets tend to rise to the surface. So maybe it’s better to keep my family out of it.”
“Okay,” Jason says. “After the wedding, and after Angie and I get back from our honeymoon, I’ll be happy to help you.”
“Thanks, Jason.”
We drive back to my parents’ house, not talking a lot. Again, fine by me.
We get back and Jason excuses himself, so I grab Zach and head to my room where I fire up my laptop.
I sit on the edge of my bed and type her name slowly, like if I go too fast it’ll jinx the whole thing.
Francine Stokes Las Vegas Showgirl
The search bar blinks at me like it’s waiting for something more. Like it wants details I don’t have. All I’ve got is a name, a city, and the vague knowledge that she cheated on my dad, left without a fight, and signed away full custody.
I hit Enter.
Dozens of links pop up—some old news clippings, show flyers, grainy YouTube videos with sparkly costumes and fake smiles.
I click on one. A line of dancers glides across the stage, feathers high, legs higher.
I squint at each face, trying to see something familiar.
A tilt of the head. A curve of the mouth.
Something that might live in my own face when I’m not paying attention.
Nothing.
Back to the search.
There’s a photo on an old casino website—Francine Stokes, billed third under the headliner, wearing a red sequined bodysuit and a smile so bright it almost hurts to look at. She’s beautiful. Sharp cheekbones, narrow waist, long legs. A total knockout.
And completely unrecognizable.
I don’t know this woman.
I don’t know what she sounds like, smells like, whether she bites her lip when she’s nervous or loves baseball like I do. I don’t know if she ever looked back after she walked away.
But I can’t stop.
I scroll farther. Obituaries. Facebook pages. A wedding announcement that lists her as a bridesmaid in someone else’s perfect day.
I wonder if she ever told anyone she had a kid.
I wonder if she ever thought about me.
She’d be too old to be working as a showgirl still.
Did she ever get married, have more children?
I could have brothers and sisters out there that I don’t even know about.
Funny how this never bothered me before.
I’ve never needed to find her.
Not once.
Growing up, I had everything that mattered. My dad—steady, protective, a little rough around the edges but always there—and my mom, who adopted me when I was two and never once made me feel like anything but hers.
They gave me a good life. A real one.
So no, I didn’t spend my childhood wondering about Francine Stokes, the showgirl who gave me up without a backward glance. She was just a name in a story that stopped mattering once my mom—my real mom—stepped in and filled the void.
But then Ralph Normandy happened.
And everything changed.
It wasn’t the actual shooting. It wasn’t the blood. It wasn’t the life I watched drain out of his body.
It was what came after. The numbness. The knowledge that a life ended because of me.
The slow, crawling fear that the whole thing could have gone a different way.
Angie could be dead. Jason could be dead. Tabitha could be dead.
I could be dead.
And now my birth mother is on my mind.
It doesn’t feel like a hole, exactly. More like a locked door I’ve never dared to open…until now.
Now I need to know.
Not because I’m angry. Not because I’m trying to replace anyone. I couldn’t if I tried.
I just want to see the face I inherited.
To hear the voice that gave me my name.
To find out if she’s still out there.
Or if she’s not.
I narrow my search.
Too many dead ends, stage names, blurry photos. But eventually, I start to connect dots—old show rosters, employment records, a dancer’s union listing that hasn’t been updated in years.
Then I find it. A public records link to a woman named Francine L. Stokes, age sixty-one, living just outside Palm Springs.
No social media. No website. Just a mailing address, a phone number, and a vague mention of a floral design business that may or may not still exist.
My heart’s beating too fast. I try to tell myself it’s probably not her. Could be someone with the same name. A coincidence.
But I know better.
There’s a photo attached to a decades-old article—some fluff piece about a Vegas revue closing down. She’s in the center of the lineup, smiling wide in sequins and feathers, and even through the stage makeup, I see it. The shape of her nose. The curve of her mouth. So like my own.
It’s her.
I stare at the screen for a long time. I don’t know what I would say to her. Or what I’d even want her to say back.
Maybe nothing.
Maybe everything.
I write the address and phone number in the notes app on my phone and then close the app as if I’m guarding a secret.
Because now I know where she is.
After the wedding, I’ll find her.
And maybe she’ll be the puzzle piece that’s missing in my life right now.