Chapter Two
When I get home, there’s an unfamiliar car parked in the circular part of my driveway near the front door. Two people sit inside it. The driver gets out as I pull into the garage. I’m popping the trunk when a woman comes around the corner.
“Blake Montana?”
I try to place her but can’t. She’s not from around here. “Yes.”
“I’m Trish Nelson.” She pulls a business card from her pocket and hands it over.
I scan the card. “A private investigator?” My eyebrows shoot up. “Am I being investigated?”
“Perhaps we should talk inside.” She glances into my trunk. “How about I help you with these bags?”
Refusing her help, I string the lot of them up both my arms. “Follow me,” I say, reluctantly, wanting to tell her to get off my property, but at the same time, curious over why she’s here.
She shuts my trunk and we head inside. I drop the bags on the counter and shove the cold food away in the refrigerator. Then I lean against the bar. “I’d offer you a cup of coffee, but at this point, I’m not sure if you’re friend or foe. Mind telling me what this is about?” I nod to the front door. “And will your friend be joining us?”
“That depends,” she says.
“On what?”
She walks behind one of the chairs at my kitchen table. “May I?”
I hold out my hand in a be-my-guest gesture. “Sure, why not.”
I remain standing, trying to deduce what a private investigator could want with me. For a moment, I wonder if it has anything to do with Phoebe’s and DJ’s deaths a few years back. But it was evident Dallas’s wife and son were killed in a carbon monoxide accident, so that wouldn’t make sense.
“Mr. Montana, does the name Lucinda Wilcox mean anything to you?”
I narrow my eyes and nod. “Lucinda. Yeah, she was at NYU when I was an undergrad.”
“You knew her well then?”
“I wouldn’t say well. We went out a few times. But her name, it’s unique enough that I’d remember it.”
“You went out a few times? Can you elaborate?”
I pull out a chair and sit. “Oh, shit. Is she dead? Was she… murdered? Listen, I’m sorry, but I haven’t seen her in five years.”
“She’s not dead, Mr. Montana.”
“My dad is Mr. Montana. You can call me Blake. And if she’s not dead, would you mind getting to the point, Ms. Nelson?”
“Trish, please.” She places her hands on the table. “This is the awkward and typically shocking part where I tell you I’ve been hired to find the father of Miss Wilcox’s child.”
My eyes bug out and my stomach clenches. “Ah, damn. Really?”
“Before I go much further, you should know you’re one of eight men who could be the potential father.”
“Eight?” I scrub a hand across my jaw. “Jesus.” A thought occurs. “Did she find out who my family is and decide I’d be a good meal ticket?”
She shakes her head. “It’s not Lucinda who hired me. It’s her parents.”
“I’m confused.”
“Honestly, Blake, I would be too were I in your position. I’m not at liberty to say much until the identity of the father is confirmed. Except I’ll tell you the child is in danger of being placed in a foster home. In an attempt to avoid that, the Wilcoxes gave me full access to their daughter’s phone and social media accounts. Through those, I was able to identify eight men she may have had relations with during the period in question. You are the sixth one I’ve been able to track down.”
“What happened with the other five?”
“Three refused to take a paternity test. Two complied but have been ruled out as the father. I’m still working on locating the other two.”
“You want me to take a paternity test?”
She motions to the front door. “I have a home health professional with me. All it involves is a swab of your cheek. The Wilcoxes have paid for expedited results which we should have within a week.”
“Three others refused?”
She nods. “You have every right to refuse. However, if the father can’t be identified based on those who volunteer, the Wilcoxes will seek court orders requiring you and the others to take one.”
“Why would I refuse? I mean, it’ll help rule me out, right? And if by chance it… rules me in, well then it’s my own reckless fault and I’ll deal with the consequences.”
Trish’s head tilts, examining me as if taking measure. She’s slightly older than I am, maybe even in her early thirties, but it’s almost as if she’s looking at me as a proud parent would. “That’s mighty honorable of you. The other two took a bit more convincing.”
“Yeah, well, I’m no saint. Lucinda wasn’t the only one who slept her way through the student body at NYU. Guess maybe I wasn’t as careful as I thought I was. It would be my own stupid fault. Takes two to tango. So the kid would be what, four?”
“That’s correct. She’s four. Five at the end of the summer.”
I do the math in my head. It seems to work out. If I recall correctly, we met spring semester of senior year. Then I realize what Trish said. “She? Do you have a picture?”
“The child is a girl, but that’s all I’m at liberty to say. Her identity is being protected as she’s a minor. I’ll have more information to share should you be a match.”
“I guess let’s get on with it then.”
She stands. “I’ll get the nurse. She’ll need to see two forms of identification.”
I pull out my wallet. “Not a problem.”
She goes for the door and turns. “Thank you, Blake. You’ve made my job very easy today.”
I nod, then run my hands through my hair as she fetches the nurse. Because, shit… thirty minutes ago my only problem was figuring out who the dream girl at the supermarket was. And now… now I could be a fucking dad.