He shrugged. “A few weeks.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Another shrug.
“That’s wonderful, Dylan! Seb ... Sebastian knows?”
“Uh-huh. I told him when we were looking at the artwork one of his patients did.” Starstruck, he examined each item. “Wig!”
“Wig?”
“So cool my wig flew off,” he explained.
He hadn’t shown this much joy over anything in a long time. The sight of it caused a lump to form in her throat. “I have his number. You’ll have to call him and thank him.”
“I already have his number. He gave it to me.”
“When you were looking at artwork together, I presume?”
“Yeah. I’ll call him.”
Sebastian had sent a teenage boy he hardly knew a wonderfully thoughtful gift.
After Dylan had taken his treasure into his cave, Leah texted Sebastian.
Thank you for the art supplies you sent to Dylan. In case his teenager-speak makes it impossible to interpret his gratitude, I want you to know that the gift meant a lot to him.
Sebastian’s reply arrived forty-five minutes later.
I’m glad.
She’d been hoping for something that invited further conversation and waited for him to send a follow-up text. But he didn’t. JustI’m glad—a cordial, to-the-point conversation-ender—and nothing more.
Aweek later Leah finally hit upon a plan of action pertaining to Jonathan Brookside and Gridwork Communications Corporation that might enable her to access the Brooksides’ address.
Problematically, she did not possess the disposition of a double agent. The idea of placing a deceptive phone call made her feel the way she’d felt when she’d developed hives after a bee sting at the age of ten. Itchy and anxious.
She tapped Gridwork’s number into her phone. Hesitated.
Restless, she paced to the windows of her classroom. Her final class of the day had concluded thirty minutes prior. Outside, a smattering of kids still dotted the campus, hurrying through the drizzle toward cars, talking with friends beneath overhangs. Inside, quiet reigned, thanks to her classroom’s closed door.
She caught herself scratching her forearm and ceased the motion.You don’t actually have hives, Leah.
She wanted more details about Jonathan and Trina and Sophie.
Her choices were simple: Make this phone call. Or wait and see if she could unearth any other sources of information. Or give up her quest for answers.
She hit the button to connect the call.
“Gridwork Communications Corporation,” a male voice answered.
“Hello, I was hoping to reach Jonathan Brookside’s personal assistant.” Surely, someone with the title ofFounderwould have an assistant.
“One moment, please.”
Classical music came on the line. Leah rubbed her thumb against the windowsill. She’d been forwarded, which indicated that Jonathan Brookside was still affiliated with Gridwork anddidhave an assistant. Had the receptionist offered to connect her to Jonathan directly, she’d been prepared to hang up. She couldn’t allow her first communication with her biological father to come in the form of a deceptive phone call.
“Meredith Tibbs,” a woman said. She sounded both grandmotherly and efficient, like a retirement-age Mary Poppins.
