Chapter Sixteen
L ucas was at the wheel when they entered the Chinook city limits. Leila, who’d been chewing her nails, tapping her feet or explaining the plots of obscure cable television series, sat up when he slowed, and immediately pulled out her phone. She read out the address of the Malcolm Black agency, the art agent who represented Mel Brezo.
“I know,” he said. “It’s on the screen.”
“I can’t believe we’re in the same town as her,” Leila said, clutching her hands together.
Mel Brezo, aka Heather “Honey” Hudson.
Their mother.
“If we are,” Lucas said.
He wished she’d temper her excitement. It was going to be awful for her if they weren’t able to meet Heather Hudson for some reason.
Such as, the woman slamming the door in their face.
“Wet blanket,” Leila said.
“Pollyanna,” Lucas replied.
He reached over to punch her arm, lightly. She punched him back, less lightly.
They pulled up in front of a nondescript building and sat in the vehicle for a moment.
“You sure this is the place?” Lucas asked.
Beige stucco, white-trimmed windows, old concrete steps with cast-iron railings going from the sidewalk to the main door. No sign visible from the street.
Leila looked at her phone. “That’s the address we got.”
They stared at each other.
“Well?” he said. “Here goes nothing, I guess.”
Leila pulled her portfolio from the hatchback, smoothed her hair, straightened her shoulders, and marched toward the door. Lucas tucked his cane under his arm, gripped the railing, and followed her up the steps.
Leila pressed the buzzer, then turned to him, her eyes wide and dark against pale skin.
“Breathe,” he whispered.
“I can’t,” she whispered back.
A moment later, a woman’s voice responded. “Malcolm Black’s office. Do you have an appointment?”
Lucas opened his mouth but Leila got there first.
“Yes, I’m Robyn Carr, seeking representation for my work,” she said, in plummy tones that Lucas hadn’t heard her use before. “I have an appointment. My work is similar to others on Mr. Black’s list and I’m hoping he agrees.”
Lucas shot her a look. “Who’s Robyn Carr?”
“Shh,” Leila said, swatting him. “One of my favorite authors.”
There was a pause, and then she said, “Yes, Ms. Carr. Come in.”
The lock disengaged with a buzzing sound and they pulled open the door and stepped inside.
“You used an assumed name?” Lucas hissed. “They don’t know us.”
“They know my name,” Leila said. “They asked me to stop emailing. Anyway, it got us in, didn’t it?”
A middle-aged woman sat at the oak-topped reception desk. The room was tastefully appointed, as you might expect from an art agency, with one large painting dominating the back wall and lit by soft spotlights above it.
“Good afternoon,” said the woman. “Mr. Black will be here momentarily. Would you like some coffee? Tea? Water?”
“No, thank you.” Leila smiled self-deprecatingly. “I’m a little nervous. Is Mr. Black nice?”
“He’s very nice. If he agreed to see you, it’s because he saw something he liked, and he’s very particular. You’ll be fine.”
Leila glanced at Lucas and took a deep breath. She wasn’t kidding, he realized. She was beyond nervous. They were, at least in her mind, one degree away from Heather Hudson, and Malcolm Black could either bridge the gap or close off their last, best clue.
While Leila fidgeted beside him, Lucas observed the receptionist. She had an appealing manner. Calm and still, as if nothing could ruffle her. Something about her seemed vaguely familiar though he couldn’t put his finger on what it was.
“Ms. Carr?”
They looked up to see a bear of a man standing in the doorway.
“I’m Malcolm Black.” He gestured to the hallway behind him. “Please, come this way.”
“Is it okay if my brother comes, too?” Leila said.
“Of course.”
Lucas gave her a thin-lipped smile. “I’m not doing any talking,” he muttered.
“Don’t need to, brother,” she said brightly. “I’m the talent, remember?”
When they got into Malcolm Black’s office, they saw several paintings he recognized as Mel Brezo’s work. Leila hadn’t had to fabricate much to engineer this meeting. She was a legitimate artist with a growing body of work, and there were subtle similarities between her work and that of Brezo.
If Brezo was in fact Heather Hudson, and Heather Hudson was in fact their mother, then it made sense.
Lucas still felt it was a long shot. Luck hadn’t been exactly on his side lately.
Except for Bayleigh.
The moment Leila sat down, words started pouring out of her.
“Mr. Black, I am an artist, and I am seeking representation, but my name isn’t Robyn Carr.”
“Oh?” Malcolm Black looked up curiously. “What is it, then.”
Lucas wanted to stuff a sock in her but it was too late.
“I’m Leila Monahan.”
The man frowned, then his mouth opened. He glanced down the hallway, his smile gone. But it wasn’t anger Lucas sensed from him, but something closer to fear. He got up from his desk and closed the door.
“The Mel Brezo fan with the bizarre theory,” he said in a low voice. “You need to leave.”
“Please, Mr. Black,” Leila said. To Lucas’s horror, he heard her voice tremble, as if she was near tears. She probably was.
“Mr. Black,” he said, hoping to give her a moment to recover. “I’m Leila’s brother, Lucas Landry. She really is a talented artist in need of representation.”
“She’s a stalker and a liar and I protect my clients.” He reached for the phone on his desk. “Please leave.”
Leila was quivering in her chair and Lucas was suddenly desperate for her not to be disappointed.
“We believe Mel Brezo,” he said quickly, “is connected to our birth mother, Heather Hudson.”
“No.” Leila lifted her head. “Mel Brezo is Heather Hudson. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”
Malcolm Black hesitated, then set the phone back down into the cradle. “I don’t know a Heather Hudson.”
That small hesitation gave Leila courage. “But you know something, don’t you? Heather Hudson had triplets as a young woman and gave them up for adoption. That’s us.” She gestured between herself and Lucas. “We have a brother named Brade, too. I don’t know why she doesn’t want any contact with us. I want to give her a chance to change her mind, to see that we’re good people, that our lives turned out fine, that we don’t hate her. We just want to know her, to hear her story. She’s the only one who knows who our father is, where we came from, why we were separated and adopted into different families, with no knowledge of each other.”
“Wait.” Malcolm Black frowned. “Triplets?”
Lucas gave Leila a quick glance. “Um, we have a younger sister, too. We’ve all just met each other. So now... we want to meet her, too. You know something, don’t you? Please, Mr. Black.”
Malcolm looked like a large balloon with a small leak. “I don’t...” He leaned back in his chair as all the fight went out of his face. He shook his head, then looked up at them. “I want to see ID please.”
They both got out their driver’s licenses and he checked them carefully. Then he frowned and looked at Lucas.
“Have I seen you somewhere?”
Lucas worked to loosen his jaw enough to talk. “I doubt it. I’m from Colorado.”
“Colorado.”
Shit. He saw the wheels turning in the older man’s head. Even all the way out here?
Malcolm Black narrowed his eyes, then stuck his finger toward Lucas. “You’re the guy who does the backwoods excursions where that girl was hurt, right?”
Lucas squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. “I run a wilderness adventure company and yes, we had a horrible accident recently. The company and I were cleared of wrongdoing.”
He hated saying that. For the good of his team, he had to. But the girl was still in a wheelchair.
“Mr. Black,” Leila said. “Please just tell me. Is Mel Brezo Heather Hudson? I wrote my thesis on this. I’ve done the research. I found nothing conclusive, but the evidence is overwhelming, once you know what to look for.”
She paused, pulled out her own glossy portfolio and shoved it over the desk toward him. “I wasn’t kidding about the similarities. I’m in no way as talented as my mother, but don’t you think there’s something about our treatment of light that’s the same?”
“Then you really are an artist?”
“I am.” Then she added, with emphasis, “Like my mother.”
Slowly, Malcolm Black paged through the thin booklet, pausing at one image in particular.
“You did these?”
Leila nodded.
“They’re quite something.”
It was praise of the faintest, but Leila glowed.
“Thank you,” she said.
Malcolm Black closed the portfolio, sat back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose as if he had a sinus headache.
“I’m struggling to understand exactly what we’re doing here,” he said wearily. “Can you start from the beginning? Please?”
Now that the ice had been broken and she no longer felt threatened, Leila flew into their story. How DNA reports, genealogy records and a few tiny clues had led Brade Oliver to Grand, Montana, seeking his father. How he’d found his half sister Diana, instead. How Diana had encouraged Leila to do the same tests, only to discover that they also were half sisters. How Leila and Brade had believed themselves to be twins, until they found their triplet Lucas.
Leila told Malcolm Black about the painting in Diana’s childhood home, a painting she recognized as an early Mel Brezo, thanks to her own art background. How they’d first suspected Mel Brezo to be their father... until Leila translated the name. Honey Heather.
“We know Heather Hudson is our mother. You’re the only link we have to her, Mr. Black,” Leila finished. Her earlier enthusiasm was gone now, replaced with a desperate, almost desolate hope. She was begging this stranger to help them.
Malcolm Black sighed heavily. He looked down at his hands and opened and closed his mouth a few times, as if unable to find the right words to disappoint them.
Leila’s obvious pain made Lucas look away, to focus on the trees swaying gently in the breeze outside the window. He knew she was setting herself—and him—up for heartbreak. Yet he’d gone along with it.
He should have known better.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” Malcolm Black said, finally. “It’s an ethical thing. I made a promise.”
“Oh.” Leila sounded like a little girl, the small word containing a lifetime of dashed dreams.
Lucas got to his feet, making no attempt to hide his bad leg. He got the cane under him, then reached for Leila’s elbow. “We’re sorry we wasted your time, Mr. Black. Come on, Leila.”
Malcolm Black held out a ham-size hand. “Wait. I can’t give you any more information, but my receptionist might be able to help you. I just need to make a quick call.”
He punched a number that was on speed dial and spoke to someone named Emmet, asking them to come by the office as soon as possible. Then he got to his feet.
“Follow me.”
“Who’s Emmet?” Leila asked.
Without answering, Malcolm Black led them back to the front room, where he stood in the doorway, with Leila on one side and Lucas on the other, as if protecting them.
“Hetty Malone,” he said, “this is Leila Monahan and her brother, Lucas Landry.”
Hetty? What kind of name was that?
The receptionist—Hetty—turned from the printer, holding a sheaf of papers in front of her like a shield. She smiled but a slight frown line ran between her eyebrows.
“Hello,” she said. “It’s nice to meet you.”
A chill flooded Lucas’s stomach and began radiating up into his chest. Leila must have felt the same, for she slipped her hand into his and clutched it like a frightened child.
“It has to do with Mel Brezo. I think they’re looking for someone you may know,” Malcolm Black continued. His tone was gentle, soft, but Lucas sensed a thread of steel in his words. “I told them I can’t help them.” He paused. “I already called Emmet.”
His words seemed to suck all the air out of the office. Tension hummed like electricity between them. The watercooler in the corner burped, the sound of the bubble like a gunshot in the thick silence.
“You called... Emmet?” Hetty’s voice was like broken glass.
“Who’s Emmet?” Leila asked. “I’m looking for my mother. Her name’s Heather Hudson and I think she’s hiding behind the Mel Brezo persona.”
Once, while riding near Beaver Creek, Lucas came across a rabbit that had been dropped by a hawk. Despite mortal injuries, the creature tried to run, its small limbs paddling furiously as the raptor circled for the final blow.
“Diana?” The word came out on a breath. Hetty’s eyes were huge, panicked, and Lucas was pretty sure he knew why.
Malcolm Black frowned. “Who’s Diana?”
Hetty stepped backward unsteadily, bracing one hand on the wall. “No, no, no, no, no, this can’t be.”
Malcolm Black turned to them. “You need to leave. She’s not well.”
“No!” Leila said. “We came all this way. We want answers!”
“And you’ll get them,” the big man said. “But not today.”
Lucas’s heart broke for his sister, for the one-two punch that was just landing.
“You,” Leila whispered, searching the woman’s features. “It’s you, isn’t it?”
“Diana . . .” Hetty said, shaking her head. “I’m so sorry . . .”
“I’m not—” Leila began.
“Hetty,” Malcolm interrupted, “you should sit down. Emmet will be here soon to take you home.”
Hetty’s mouth opened and closed but no sound came out.
Lucas put a hand on Malcolm Black’s shoulder and squeezed. “Who’s Emmet?”
The man looked at his receptionist, then sighed, “Emmet,” he said, “is Hetty’s daughter. Who’s Diana?”
Lucas dropped his hand and took a step back. Another child? After abandoning four children, this woman had given birth to yet another. “Diana,” he said, emphasizing the word carefully, “is Hetty’s daughter.”
Hetty lifted tortured eyes to Leila. “You’re not Diana?”
“Diana’s my sister.” Leila was fighting tears. She glanced at Lucas pleadingly.
He had no pity for the stranger in front of him, but he couldn’t bear Leila’s pain. “Leila is your other daughter,” he said. “The first one you left.”
Hetty Malone, once Heather Hudson, Honey Hudson and Heather Scott sucked in a breath with a sound like a sob, her legs crumpled, and she slid to the floor in a dead faint.