Five Ways to Fall (Ten Tiny Breaths, #4)(114)

Ian sees me first. He offers a smile, but it’s wary. I’m not stupid. To him, I’m the estranged daughter of his trophy wife who, if anyone bothered to do a bit of research, could probably cause some political embarrassment for him, especially around election time. God knows what she’s told him about me. At least my record is sealed.

Annabelle turns. With her tall frame, hourglass figure, and perfect features, she has always been a stunning woman. I can’t deny that she still is, though getting a better look at her—at the shape of her eyes, the lack of a single wrinkle or flaw, the very full breasts—I’m betting she’s had plastic surgery since I saw her last.

Those cold azure eyes float over the length of me, of my gown, of my hair, of Ben next to me, and I see a flash of something—surprise? Triumph? Suspicion? “I didn’t think you were going to make it, Reese,” she says in a breathy voice, leaning forward to peck my cheek, much like I’d imagine a chicken pecks at a piece of corn. I mentally compare that to the kiss Wilma planted on me—warm and loving and so . . . motherly.

“I didn’t think I was going to either,” I admit. Up until yesterday, I had my mind made up.

And then I learned the whole story.

Coming here tonight to confront her may be considered poor timing by some. But I think it’s the perfect moment. She’ll be sober, for one thing. I can guarantee that her glass is straight Perrier. She won’t risk getting drunk with all these people here.

But mainly, she’ll be so concerned about how I’m going to react—in front of all these spectators—that she won’t have a chance to throw a fit.

Turning to Ben, Annabelle purrs, “Hello, I’m Annabelle Donnelly,” and holds her hand out limply as if she’s expecting him to kiss it.

“Ben Morris. It’s a pleasure,” he answers with a high-voltage dimpled smile as he smoothly accepts her hand. As much of a foot-in-mouth jackass as Ben can be, he seems to have a way of making a woman react. Even now, Annabelle’s eyes scan his body quickly before letting go, a demure smile on her extra-pouty lips. Plumper than I last remember.

“I need to talk to you,” I blurt out.

“Sure. Perhaps after the ball?”

“We’re not staying long.”

“Oh. Well, I hope you’ll at least stay for some family pictures. Ian’s children flew in to be here. The photographer is setting up in the library.” To those who don’t know her, Annabelle looks unperturbed. That vein in the side of her neck is pulsing, though. She’s on edge.

Her delicate shoulder begins to curl back toward the circle, already dismissing my presence, until I say, “I found Hank.”

Every part of her freezes. Her fake smile, her enhanced body, her breath. For one very long moment, Annabelle looks like a statue.

“Excuse me, everyone,” she announces, setting her flute onto a passing server’s tray, before she begins her slow, feline stalk past me, her four-inch heels clicking against the marble floor.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Ben whispers into my ear.

“No. I’m good.”

“Okay. I’ll be here if you need me,” he whispers, laying a kiss on my temple before he reminds me, “You’re just here to talk.”

“Yup,” I answer with a tight smile, hoping I can keep my promise. We exit the room and head to the left, down a quiet hall that has been roped off to guests. To anyone witnessing this, we probably look like a strange processional of Holiday Barbie dolls. Certainly not like mother and daughter.

Annabelle pushes through a set of solid double doors, leading me into what appears to be Ian’s office, a masculine-looking room of floor-to-ceiling drapery, dark cherry wood, and black leather. When those heavy doors close behind me, the lively sounds of music and laughter vanish completely.

And now it’s just Annabelle and me.

She clears her throat. “What is it you’d like to talk about, exactly?”

There’s no point dancing around this. “Did you know that my father was trying to find me?”

She clears her throat again. “I assumed that he would have, eventually. Not that I’ve spoken to him again after he left us.”

“No, Annabelle. Not us. You! He wanted to take me with him to his new life, with MaryAnn. That’s where we were the day you reported me kidnapped. You knew exactly where we were. You knew I wasn’t in any danger.” I see the flash of pain in her eyes and I smile, though there’s no pleasure in it. “Didn’t think I’d ever find out, did you? Lucky for me you went on to marry a guy like Jack, who cares enough about me to start asking questions, even sixteen years later.”

Bowing her head, she seems to take a moment to breathe, her chest rising and falling heavily several times. “How is he?” she finally asks in a hoarse whisper. “Hank.”

The lump that’s been sitting at the base of my throat since yesterday flares, knowing that I’ll never get to see him again. “He’s in a Tallahassee cemetery. He was run off the road on his Harley by a truck driver who hadn’t checked his blind spot before changing lanes, about eight years ago.”

My words slap her across the face as forcefully as if I had hit her with my palm. Whatever color was left in her cheeks vanishes, leaving her gray-skinned, her mouth hanging open.

When Jack called the firm’s P.I. about Hank MacKay, the investigator started out with the routine checks—police reports and obituaries. That quickly led him to the death report and to the next-of-kin, his common-law spouse, MaryAnn Seltzer.