Page 5 of Memory of Murder
“The head of the Colby Agency.”
Anne’s first inclination was to say no. She did not agree with this ridiculous idea. She did not want the stuff in the box. She surely did not feel an obligation to the woman who gave birth to her.
But then she saw the photo. An old Polaroid-style photograph of a woman holding a tiny baby.
Her, she realized.
This was probably the only photo of her and her mother together that existed. Something pink grabbed her attention then. She touched it. A baby blanket.
The rip in her chest was abrupt, painful. Anne willed the sharp sensation away. The ache…the lost hope and childish desperation refused to go.
“Really,” she insisted even as her throat tightened further. “I don’t care. Do what she asked. It makes no difference to me.” She tossed the photo back into the box and struggled to tamp down the emotions shearing through her. This woman—this murderer—would not cause her more pain. Not now. Not ever again.
He nodded. “There’s just one catch, you see. In order to proceed we need your cooperation.”
Her gaze narrowed on the man who had intruded on her day. “What does that mean? My cooperation?”
“Victoria feels strongly that I shouldn’t move forward with my investigation unless you agree to be a part of the investigation.”
No way. Anne would not go digging around in a past she knew nothing about for a woman who was a stranger to her.
Absolutely no way.
Chapter Three
3:00 p.m.
Anne watched from the front window as Jackson Brenner drove away.
Despite her misgivings, she had assured him that she would have an answer in the morning.
On some level she wanted to simply say no. Mary Morton didn’t deserve the time of day from Anne, much less a day or more of her life. The very idea was ludicrous. But in her current emotional state, Anne didn’t trust herself to make the right decision. As he so cleverly pointed out, she didn’t want to have future regrets.
As soon as the man from the Colby Agency had walked out the door she had called the one person she trusted—her friend and personal assistant, Lisa Gilbert. Lisa was on her way over.
Anne crossed to the chair she had vacated and picked up the box.
The box.
It sounded so ominous…as if her mother’s ashes or some dark secret were ensconced inside.
Her mother. Anne moved her head side to side. She had no mother. This woman—the biological mother—had never been a mother to her. None of the foster moms had been anything more than a supervisor. Anne felt confident there were good foster parents out there. Probably plenty of them. Sadly she had never been placed with a good one. She closed her eyes andpushed away the memories that tried to surface. Maybe her long run of bad luck had been in part due to the attitude she developed by age three, but mostly, she was certain, it was about her being the child of a murderer—born in prison.
No one had wanted her.
Anne forced her eyes open and kicked aside all those painful feelings. She had survived. And eventually she had thrived. All on her own, damn it.
Lips tight with frustration, she picked up the box and carried it to the dining area. Unlike many who kept some sort of decor on the table, Anne left hers clean for the purpose of spreading out her work. The one she’d chosen was larger than her sofa, its size necessary since she used it as a multipurpose piece. Although her office was upstairs, she often worked here with the French doors open so she could enjoy the fresh air. Not this time of year, obviously, because it was too hot. Open doors or not, she regularly used this as a conference table for meetings with clients. With Lisa on her way toconfer, Anne removed the items from the box and spread them out over the tabletop as if they were samples related to a potential customer.
Flooring, paint, cabinetry… All sorts of sample pieces ended up on her table during a brainstorming session with Lisa or a meeting with clients. Generally, there were photographs of the space in need of a redo. Sometimes there were blueprints. Always there were options, photos from previous projects or magazines or Pinterest, for consideration.
For this unexpected session there were only the things from the box. The journal. A fist formed in Anne’s chest. The photographs she’d never seen. Knots tightened in her belly. A dozen or more newspaper clippings. A key. Curiosity joined the mix of emotions. She picked up the key and turned it over. No markings, but there was a number stamped into the metal: 168.Could be an apartment key. Maybe a lockbox key. Anne had no idea.
Then there was the necklace. Delicate silver chain with a locket. There were two tiny photos inside. One was of a woman she believed to be Mary Morton with a young man. The other was even harder to distinguish other than the fact that there appeared to be three women huddled together.
Maybe there was something in the journal about the locket.
The pink blanket… Anne pulled it from the box and smoothed her hand over it. Was this the blanket she’d been wrapped in after she was born? Tiny white flowers dotted the soft pink fabric. She set it aside.
