Five Ways to Fall (Ten Tiny Breaths #4)(114)
“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.
It all sounds so easy.
Hank had written several letters to me, hoping he’d one day have a place to send them. After his death, MaryAnn gave the letters to Bethany MacKay, my father’s sister. An aunt who I didn’t even know existed. Who lives twenty minutes away from me. MaryAnn had a hunch that one day Hank’s long-lost daughter would track the MacKay family down.
“You met my dad one night at a Miami bar where his band was playing. He had just broken up with his girlfriend. You were watching him play the guitar. And then, when some girl tried to cut in front of you, you dumped a beer down the back of her shirt. You pretended it was an accident but my dad saw you intentionally pour it.” I smile at that. It’s something I would do, except I wouldn’t hide it. I’d own up to it with pleasure. “He said you were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. You started dating right away. He’d drive an hour into the city every chance he got. Then, six months later, when you found out that you were pregnant with me, you got married. Neither of you thought twice about it.”
I begin retelling all that that first letter explained in great detail, stories that I’d never heard from Annabelle. As I do, I see the emotions threatening to break through her mask. “You moved into a two-bedroom apartment in his hometown, where he worked as a mechanic in his father’s garage. You stayed home with me.” I step farther into the room, my eyes taking in the painted portrait of Annabelle that sits over the fireplace on the wall, in a sexy slip dress and a fur stole. “You hated it. You hated being stuck with a baby at home. You were bored with small-town life. You wanted to move to Miami but Hank wasn’t willing; he was the only one bringing in a paycheck. Plus, he was going to take over the business from his dad.
“You two fought a lot because of it. You fought a lot in general. You had a huge argument one Friday night when I was about three and the neighbors called the cops. Hank was so mad, he took off for a few hours. When he came home, he found you passed out on the couch. I was sitting in a pool of spilled vodka, crying. That’s when you claimed you were suffering from postpartum depression, and that you were going to get help. After that, he started taking me everywhere with him, until you got better.”