"Oh, yeah? Well, what do ya know? What's this about flashing something? I can't read your writing, Sarge."
The man chuckled. "Yeah, well, I can think of a couple things a man would like you to flash, Mackenzie. But this man is a priest, for cryin' out loud. Show some respect."
She rolled her eyes, then arched an eyebrow, waiting for him to answer.
"The note says that when you pull up, flash your lights and he'll join you. Guess he wants you to drive somewhere. With rush-hour traffic, you might want to leave now," he added.
"Yeah, thanks. Good idea."
She suddenly remembered what Christian had told her. Promise me you won't deviate from the plan.
A trip to St. Sebastian's definitely constituted a departure from their game plan. But surely he would understand. She was only meeting a priest at a church rectory. How dangerous could that be? A loud crack of thunder nearly jolted her from her seat. Both she and the sergeant looked out the window, catching a violent flash of light streaking across the sky.
"Rush hour is gonna be a bear. My workload's gonna triple." He scowled. "You better get going. Drive safe."
"Yeah, later, Sarge. I gotta see a priest."
"I've always thought that'd be a good thing for you, Mackenzie. God works in mysterious ways."
"So I've heard." She shook her head and grinned at the man.
After grabbing her coat, she put a hand on her Glock in its holster, an old habit when she was on the move. She glanced at her cell phone, checking the battery. It had plenty of juice. The plan could still work. He'd call her and she'd answer the phone.
What could be simpler?
Christian wondered the same thing. What did he know . . . exactly? Good question, Fie—and a clever stall tactic. So much was supposition on his part. Only she knew all the answers.
Lightning streaked across the night sky, hurling its wrath into the void. And with it, his anxiety multiplied. Yet Christian persisted in this verbal joust with Fiona. The vaguer his responses, the more he might get her to admit. It was a gamble. But she was an intelligent woman, smart enough to outwit his lame attempt at a subtle interrogation. And the pained expression on her face made him feel heartless.
"Let's just say that I'm gonna have mixed feelings when it comes to celebrating Mother's Day." He wanted to bite back his cynicism, but it swept through his words like an infection. He couldn't look at her any longer. Even with everything she'd done, she was still his mother. Nothing justified his cruelty to her, not without first hearing her side of it.
"Oh, God. You don't know how many times I wanted to tell you the truth, especially after—"
"There's a lot I don't know, Mother dearest."
He walked toward the glass door to the hangar waiting room, his eyes boring through the darkness beyond the lights of the small parking lot. Pulling back his coat, he jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He caught her in the reflection of the glass. A shimmer of tears influenced the lines of her face. She looked older than her years.
But there was still so much he needed to know. He couldn't spare her. Not now. With her propensity to disappear, he had to know the truth before it was too late. He let his mind delve into the depths of his pain.
"And you just watched me go through that hell and didn't say a word. How could you? Why?"
Quietly, when she thought he hadn't noticed, Fiona clutched at her stomach as if she were nauseated. He knew the feeling. Slowly, she regained her composure and joined him at the door. She stood by his side and stared into the heavy rain.
"I know you're not going to believe this, but I did it for your own good."
Closing his eyes, he tilted his head back, not sure he wanted to hear her crafty dodges.
"You owe me an explanation." Glaring forward, he kept his tone even. "Let's start with something simple. Who were the Delacortes? If I was your son, how did I end up being raised by them?"
Flashes of his family's faces blew through his mind, like a reel of film played out of context, remembrances he thought he'd buried. Memories long forgotten suddenly sprang from the darkness. Strange images mirrored in the glass of the waiting room.
Glimpses of a happier life. Loving smiles. Laughter. Childish games with his precocious younger sister. Replaced by the screams he knew well—and all that blood.
Then, just as suddenly, the throng of memories faded. Yet one image remained. Bathed in light, shadow man now had a face, a memory he would keep.
"John Delacorte." Fiona spoke the man's name as if she read his mind.
"Yes." His trance slowly cleared with the sound of his own voice. Christian gazed at Fiona. Odd, she had a smile on her face.
"I met him when I was pregnant with you, Christian. Back in those days, there was such a stigma to an out-of-wedlock pregnancy. My family made excuses for me, sent me away."
Pulling her coat around her, Fiona folded her arms. She stepped to the chairs across the room and collapsed into one.
Her voice sounded very far away. "He was a ground-skeeper at the facility, Serenity Clinic in upstate New York—very private, very discreet. John and I became friends. He was such a compassionate young man."
She patted the seat next to her. Defeat showed on her face. He couldn't refuse her. Moving the chair from the wall, he squared off, facing her knee to knee.
"I couldn't give you up, especially not after seeing your eyes. Green, like mine." She smiled. Tears pooled, then drained down her cheek. "I was betrothed to Charles Dunhill. A very dangerous man. If he knew—" It took her a moment to continue. "I paid John to adopt you. Once I got married, I had access to more funds. It got easier to support you, to keep you hidden. I subsidized John and his growing family for years. He was such a good man."
"But you gave me up. Why? And why keep me hidden? Were you that. . . ashamed?"
"God, no. I loved you, so much." A sob caught in her throat. She clutched at his hand. The unexpected touch made him flinch, but she held firm. It was her way. "It broke my heart when I wasn't there to see your first steps, to hear you call someone else Mother." With a frail hand, she wiped tears from her face. "It was the best I could do, Christian."
He narrowed his eyes. She still hadn't answered his question. Why did she keep him hidden? She caught his look of skepticism.
"Besides, John loved you like a son. After the years went by, I saw how much it meant for you to be a part of his family. He couldn't have loved you more if you were his own. I saw that, too."
Her diversion worked, for an instant. Christian swallowed hard, choking back the emotion.
"What?" She squeezed his hand, encouraging him. "Say it."
The connection he felt for Fiona now reminded him of the many conversations they had when he was a kid, so messed up. She had a gift. She could draw things from him that he didn't know were inside.
"Lately, I've been having that same recurring nightmare. The one I had when I was a kid. But this time, I remembered more of it." His eyes found hers. "My father . . . John saved my life. He died because of me. They all did."
"No, Christian. If anyone takes the blame, it should be me. I was too weak to deny my family and stand up to Charles. Don't do this to yourself."
"It wasn't the police that killed the Delacortes, was it? Why did you lie about that?" His accusation came from nowhere. But he saw by her reaction that he'd stumbled onto the truth.
She refused to answer. Fiona's jaw dropped, her eyes wide with his abruptness.
He yanked his hand from hers and stared in disbelief. "Damn it! You owe me the truth. Don't hold back now."
She wasn't going to answer him, but he couldn't let it go. Standing, he thrust the chair out from under him and stalked toward the door. "Those men were after me. I remembered that too. Who killed the Delacortes, Fiona?"