Chapter 21
Harper
I’m hustling to my doorway, about to leave for work, when my phone rings.
“Hello?” I say, tucking the phone between my neck and shoulder as I pull my shoes on, one hand already reaching for my bag.
Silence.
“Hello,” I say again, drawing out the syllables this time.
Someone is breathing at the other end of the line. Slow. Deliberate.
And it’s not the first time I’ve received a call like this. I’ve hung up on a few these past few weeks—this tactic has Victor written all over it. Another one of his intimidation techniques.
Well, nice try. It doesn’t work on me.
“You don’t scare me,” I growl into the phone, my voice steady even though my pulse is hammering behind my ears. “If anything, it makes me want to go after you even more. I took you down once, remember? I can do it again.”
And then I hang up.
My phone slips from my fingers, hitting the floor with a sharp crack. The sound echoes in my apartment, too loud. That’s when I realize I’m shaking, my hand hovering uselessly in midair.
Not because I’m scared—
Because I’m angry.
Angry they let this douchebag out of prison a year early.
Angry that he’s back at it—and trying to silence me.
I snatch my phone, sling my bag over my shoulder, and march out of my apartment. During the entire commute, I fill my phone with notes—names of sources I can contact, old leads I can reopen, half-formed ideas that are stacking up faster than I can type them.
As soon as I reach my desk, I dive in.
Emails. Databases. Old case files. Court documents. Anything that has Victor Pike’s name on it.
But as I’m scrolling to the bottom of a news page, a banner ad flashes across my screen. Join the US Army and protect your country!
My mind shifts instantly to Baptiste. To the medal I saw at his place. He was right, there are a lot of people in the military. And there were even more soldiers during the world wars. But it’s not just that one detail.
It’s the fact that Helen knew where he was born. Told a story that lined up too neatly.
The way she said she was American without even trying to pass as French.
The fact that her father was in the military. And how much she looks like Baptiste. One sign after another, all pointing in the same direction. I can feel it in my gut. But I need to make sure. If I want to bring this to Baptiste again, I need more than my instincts. I need concrete proof.
I close Victor’s tabs and pull up everything I can find on Baptiste—interviews, bios, profiles, archived articles. Anything that includes even a fleeting mention of his early life. Every source says he was born in Strasbourg. He never mentioned Metz, not even once. Just like I thought.
But maybe she dug up that info somehow. Maybe she did her research too, prepared the case with exacting precision.
Putting myself in an imposter’s shoes, I try to find his birthplace, and I quickly get lost in the French web, which is way more intimidating than the US one. The automatic translation is shaky at best, but I manage to navigate through most of the websites.
Hours later, my eyes are burning and my coffee has gone cold, and I still haven’t been able to access a single record.
A person’s birthplace isn’t searchable by the public.
Only the person themselves, close family—with proof of parentage, and the authorities can access that kind of information.
I ask a friend in the police department if he would hypothetically be able to uncover a French citizen’s birthplace, and he says it would be extremely difficult.
Apparently, Europe has strict privacy laws, and you would need probable cause or a judicial request to access that kind of data.
I lean back and twirl in my chair, the rotation slow, thoughtful.
The office is quieter now. Most of the staff have gone home for the day, the lights dimmed, the hum of computers replacing the lively daytime chatter.
I don’t see how Helen would have been able to access Baptiste’s records, unless she had someone very powerful on her side.
And even if she did, why go to all that trouble to convince Baptiste if she already has that much power and money?
This doesn’t make any sense.
Well, in a way, it does. Maybe she knew his birthplace because she’s his real mom.
Leaning forward again, I look into the medal next.
If there’s one thing we know, it’s that the medal was in the blanket Baptiste was wrapped in when he was abandoned.
Meaning it almost certainly belonged to his family.
I remember seeing an arrowhead on the ribbon, so I start with that.
A quick search reveals that the arrowhead medal was awarded to US Army soldiers who took part in an assault landing—parachuting in, landing by glider, or storming a beach under enemy fire.
My pulse quickens.
I keep digging, scrolling through pages of photos, until I stop short. There it is. The exact same medal. The same ribbon. Same arrowhead shape.
The European–African–Middle Eastern Campaign Medal. Which means the soldier who received it fought in World War II, more specifically, in an invasion landing in Europe. Possibly Normandy. So, possibly D-day.
“You’re still here?” my boss’s voice chirps behind me.
I jump in surprise, hand flying to my chest. “Selma. Hey. You startled me.”
“I’m sorry. I was just surprised to see you so late,” she says, a hand propped on her hip. “Making progress, I assume?”
I slump back in my chair. “Um… actually, not really.” Not on Victor, anyway.
“Déjà vu, huh? Just like last time,” she says. “And you had more access to him back then. But I’m sure you’ll figure it out. And if you can’t crack the story, don’t sweat it. There are plenty of slimy fish in the sea, you know that.”
I nod firmly. “Absolutely. But I’ll get him. Don’t worry.”
“Okay. You should go home and get some rest.” She smiles softly, then walks away.
She’s right. I haven’t taken a single break today. My back is killing me, my neck is stiff, and my shoulders are tight from hunching over my desk for hours on end. But before I leave for the night, I have to call my PI.
He answers on the first ring.
I press the phone to my ear. “Hi, Neal. How are you?”
“Not bad. What can I do for you?” he says in his usual calm voice.
I hesitate, then say, “I need you to confirm some information for me. Make sure a story checks out. Can you do that?”
“Absolutely. Send me everything you have.”
A grin spreads across my face. Neal is one of the best at what he does. In a few days, I’ll know if Helen Fletcher’s story is a fabrication or the real thing—and I’ll be just a bit closer to the truth.