“What the hell was that?” Her voice echoed in the now empty room.
Peyton cleaned up the breakfast dishes, laughing softly. She was one of those who cleaned up before the maid service was due to arrive. It was a trait she’d inherited from her mother. Her father was a busy man, but her mother was not idle. She was pretty far up in the chain of a nonprofit organization. But her mom had been adamant when it came to making her bed and keeping her room clean. Her family had traveled extensively when she was young, and even then, before leaving the hotel room, she was expected to keep her things neat and tidy.
Her thoughts moved to Alistar. The connection to him went deep. It was confusing. It was thrilling. He must be crazy to think he would go crazy.
She shook off the disquieting thoughts. She had a few things to take care of before Tarron returned. One of them included making headway on her article forArt Alliance. But first things first. Things to search for. Important things. Leander Skerry was her biological grandfather. And yet she’d never even met him.
She found the small office behind the stairs in the entryway, the door almost hidden by all the matching woodwork. There was no dark wood in the room. It was paneled in white. A long marbled countertop served as the desk. There were drawers and a light-colored rug on the floors. The tiny space’s ceiling modeled the slant of the staircase. There was a computer, albeit old, but it booted up. It needed a password, but she had no clue where to start with that, so she pulled out a top center drawer. There were a pile of bills, each with anLS(Leander Skerry?) scribbled along withpd(paid?) and a date. Everything had its place. Pens, pencils, paper clips, stapler, staples, sticky notes.
There were no personal notes. Just supplies and the pile of paid bills. She set everything back in place and moved to a set of three stacked drawers and started at the top. More supplies that included a couple of flash drives. A checkbook and box of empty checks from Barclays. She tossed them back and went to the second drawer.
This proved more interesting. Personal correspondence. She set it aside for later.
The third drawer held a three-ringed binder labeled “The London Investigations Agency.”She settled in for a quick reading session. The contents were filed chronologically, with the most recent on top. Inside this book was a contract signed by Leander Skerry and LIA’s representative, Eliot Bednor, FIPI.
Peyton skimmed through page after page of legalese, wishing her father were there beside her. She was an art critic, not a lawyer.
She found a marriage announcement.
A newspaper account of the announcement.
A marriage certificate for a civil parish in Colchester.
The marriage certificate, dated the tenth of March, 1995, was between a Sarah Christine Seward and Django Skerry, no middle name. Then there was a birth certificate from the Portland Hospital for a baby girl listed as Caitlin Elizabeth born in 1990, and a death notice dated 1998.
Peyton’s breath caught in her throat. Her scalp tingled; her fingers shook. She studied the date, aware of white spots edging her vision. The birth date was the same as her own. The sixteenth of April 1990. But the death notice was 1998. If Leander was her biological grandfather, she was looking at her parents’ marriage certificate and—she couldn’t wrap her head around the different pieces of paper. Did she have a twin who’d died?
An interesting report from the London Investigations Agency dated less than a year ago followed.
Dear Sir:
I have located substantial evidence that your granddaughter lives. She currently resides in New York City, NY. She was adopted by Mr. and Mrs. Matthew McKenzie of Hartford, CT. I’m also happy to inform you, she holds success as a prestigious art critic. From my understanding, she travels the world reviewing up-and-coming and established artists. She has built a substantial reputation for herself under the name of Peyton Olivia McKenzie. I have not had luck, thus far, learning who killed your son and his wife and put Ms. McKenzie into the foster care system. The good news is that she was not in the system for any extended period of time…
Peyton slid from the chair to the floor, still clutching the report that listed all of her accolades from high school through Columbia then Yale, her heart beating fast, blood rushing her ears, white spots temporarily blinding her.
The front door slammed, startling her into gasping for a breath.
“Peyton. Darling, I’m back.” Tarron’s voice was a welcome reprieve.
She crawled to her feet. “In here.”
He met her at the door. “This is cozy. And hidden.”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
She held out the report.
Seven
A
listar put the car in park as they returned from dinner and moved around to open Peyton’s door. “You seem quiet.”
“Yes. I’m sorry.” She didn’t elaborate, and he hesitated at intruding. After all, in another two days, life as he knew it would come to an end.
The natural exuberance he’d witnessed since their walk on the path along Chad Brook was definitely subdued. He assisted her from the car. “I see your friend hasn’t yet returned from London.”
