Thin Love (Thin Love, #1)(128)
Kona, at least, seems to feel the awkward air of anger in the room. Keira glances at him, catches his frown, that simmering calm she knows is forced and then looks away.
“Okay,” the chubby lawyer with the ridiculous name, Martin Martin says, coming through the door to sit at the head of the table. In his hand is a manila envelope and he waves it around like it’s a winning Lotto ticket and not the results that Keira knows have been forged. “We have the tests results, Ms. Riley.” The man looks to be in his mid-fifties with gray hair above his ears and at his temples. The smile is professional, friendly, but too polished, teeth too white. He would have fit into her mother’s social circle with little difficulty. “Keep in mind, Ms. Riley that since Mr. Hale and his deceased brother were twins, the lab expanded the testing to thirty-two loci instead of the usual fifteen. Brothers will typically match and so the lab tested Mr. Hale’s sample as well as Luka’s.”
“How?” Keira asks, wondering what lengths Kona’s mother had gone to, to make sure Keira looked like an idiot.
“The autopsy. Professor Alana had the samples stored.”
Of course she did, Keira thinks, suddenly realizing that the woman had likely planned this. She’d known Keira didn’t go through with the abortion. It was something a woman like her would have checked up on. Storing Luka’s DNA was her insurance.
The lawyer clears his throat, bringing Keira’s attention back to the head of the table. “In this case Luka Hale’s DNA and Mr. Hale’s were tested as the potential fathers of the child.” Keira hates the way the man calls Ransom a child. She hates the way he speaks Luka’s name as though he is a footnote, the unlucky pawn that got blamed for Ransom’s existence.
Keira can only stare at the gold ring on the lawyer’s hand as he slides the envelope across the smooth table. She knows they watch her, take in her slow movements, the flick of her nails against the brass brads as she opens it.
She is not surprised when she reads the results:
Kona Hale: Probability of paternity: 50%
Luka Hale: Probability of paternity: 99%
Keira blinks, then closes her eyes, slipping the paper back into the envelope. “Well now,” she says, staring right at Kona’s mother. “Isn’t that convenient?”
“Excuse me, Ms. Riley?” the woman says. Her smile is so wide that her lips look thin.
The lawyer again clears his throat, perhaps sensing the build of tension in the room. “Naturally, since Mr. Hale has been ruled out as the father, he will not be making any arrangements in terms of child support or back payment for the past sixteen years.” Keira watches Kona, her anger building as she notices his posture, how he’s crossed his arms, tightened his shoulder. How he refuses to look at her.
“Money?” Keira leans on the table, slapping her hand on the surface when Kona averts his gaze. Finally he looks at her, expression tight, guarded. “You think I want your money?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Keira, really. This can all be settled.” She can’t even look at Kona’s mother when she speaks to her. That tone is too familiar and Keira leans back, forces herself to keep her eyes on the table as the woman continues. “The boy is still our blood and Kona wants to help you out. Isn’t that right, Keiki kane?”
When Kona only nods, Keira pushes back from the table. Sixteen years ago, her temper, her rage would have her wanting to crawl over the table and jump on top of that bitch. But Keira was not that angry girl anymore. Time, distance, motherhood had all calmed her, given her reflection and hindsight. So she doesn’t scream at Kona’s mother. She doesn’t call Kona a spineless * for letting his mother and lawyer hold his balls. Instead, Keira picks up her bag and pushes her chair back under the table, hand resting on the back.
To his lawyer, she nods. “I am not interested in any monetary arrangements.” The man’s eyebrows lift and Keira sees the question rounding his eyelids. “Mr. Martin, I’ve won a Grammy and have written a dozen platinum songs. I don’t need Mr. Hale’s money.” When the professor clicks her tongue, Keira jerks her head around. “Don’t believe me?”
“Girls like you are always calculating.” As the woman leans forward, arms on the table, she sneers at Keira, cold, pensive, as though she believes reading Keira, understanding her, is simple. “I know damn good and well that this won’t be the last we hear from you.”
“Girls like me, Professor Alana? You mean girls who take care of themselves? Or girls who make their own way?”
“Keira, don’t play the martyr.” The woman brushes off Kona’s hand on her wrist, his vain attempt to get his mother to calm down. “I know your mother left you a substantial inheritance.”
“Yes, she did and I donated every single dime to charities she would have hated; the NAACP, the American Indian College Fund, Water.org.” She tries not to let Kona’s attempts at fighting a smile dim any of her anger. “Believe me or not, but I’ve done pretty well for myself and I don’t need Kona’s money.” Keira is done with this ridiculous conversation. She’d given Kona and that bitter, hateful mother of his too much of her time. Her hand is in her purse, pulling out the envelope before either of them can argue with her.
“And while we’re talking about girls like me, girls that are calculating, why not admit a few things? Like who suggested what lab would do the testing?” She looks at Kona. “Was it her?” She nods to Alana who makes strange little noises of protest, forcing Keira to speak louder. “And why in God’s name would she have stored Luka’s autopsy samples all these years?” She walks around the table and places a small, white envelope in front of Kona. “And if she was so convinced that Luka was Ransom’s father then why the hell would she have given me this?” Keira leans down, ignores how good Kona smells as her mouth lingers near his ear. “I think you know it’s well past time for your balls to drop, *.” Keira backs up when he turns, eyes hard, frown severe but she isn’t threatened by him or the cold way he glares at her. “You keep away from my kid. You don’t deserve to know him.”