of their famous great-grandmother, Isabella. Because they were Truebloods, they knew that they, too, had a sacred duty to carry on the tradition passed down to them: finding lost souls and reuniting loved ones.
Kate Hoffmann is acknowledged
as the author of this work.
For Cristina, with thanks for your friendship
and all those mornings at Mead.
Contents
PROLOGUE
“MR. MADISON? Are you all right?”
Ryan Madison heard her words, even registered the concern in her voice, but the strange buzzing in his head made it impossible to form a reply.
Was he all right? This morning, when he’d walked into the trailer at Number 59, he hadn’t really bothered to consider the question. On the whole, his life was going pretty damn well. He was almost twenty-seven years old, considered a decent-looking guy without any major dental problems or personality disorders. He owned a very successful business in Midland, Texas—Madison Drilling and Oil—and made a good living. They’d just opened their fifty-ninth well. And though he wasn’t happily married with two point four children and a dog, he came from what he thought was a loving, supportive family—until now.
“I know this must be startling news,” she said, her voice lilting slightly with just a hint of a Spanish accent. “And I’m sure it will take some time to sink in.”
His attention was fixed on her mouth and he watched her form each word, as if in slow motion. She had a beautiful mouth, a shapely upper lip, like a Cupid’s bow, complemented by a soft, full lower lip. She’d introduced herself when she’d walked into the trailer, but suddenly, he couldn’t remember her name. Jane? Janice? No, Jennifer. He drew a slow breath and focused his thoughts. That was it. Jennifer Rodriguez.
When his drilling foreman had shown her in, Ryan’s curiosity had been piqued. Beautiful women didn’t wander into his trailer every day, or every month for that matter. Beautiful women were in short supply in the oil fields of the Permian Basin. And there was no arguing that Jennifer Rodriguez was beautiful. A breath of fresh air in the hot, dusty oil fields of West Texas.
When she’d introduced herself as a private investigator, he’d nearly laughed out loud. P.I.s were supposed to be balding, middle-aged men with potbellies, cigar-stained teeth and a world-weary attitude. Jennifer Rodriguez wore a pretty flowered dress that skimmed her slender figure. Her long dark hair tumbled in messy waves around her shoulders and her eyes were so brown they were nearly black. Her skin, kissed golden by the sun, looked so soft he was tempted to reach out and touch her face. Without thinking, he raised his hand and—
“Mr. Madison, perhaps it might be best if I leave you to think about everything I said. I’ll just wait—”
“No!” Ryan replied. If she left he’d be forced to face a reality he wasn’t ready to acknowledge. As long as she was here, he could allow himself the safety of a fantasy or two when doubts overwhelmed his common sense. Reluctantly, he glanced down at the sheet of paper in his hand—a birth certificate. It didn’t look anything like the document he had seen when he applied for his first passport. “I don’t understand. This isn’t me. This baby was stillborn. Why would you think this is me?”
“I’m working for a man named Ben Mulholland,” she said. “He was born on October 23, 1974, outside Austin. That’s the birth certificate of his twin brother.”
“I was born on October 23, 1974 in Austin, at a hospital,” Ryan said numbly. “And I’m an only child.”
“I’m sure if you look at your birth certificate, you’ll see the same doctor’s signature, nearly the same time of birth. We think you’re Ben Mulholland’s twin brother.”
Ryan shook his head. “Wait a minute. First, you tell me I’m adopted, that my parents really aren’t my parents. And now you tell me I have a twin brother? This doesn’t make any sense.”
“The doctor who delivered you was a baby broker. When he delivered you to your adoptive parents, he gave them a forged birth certificate. I think if you check closely, you’ll see that the doctor couldn’t have been in two separate places delivering two different babies.”
He raked his fingers through his dusty hair. “I—I don’t know— Why do you think—”
Jennifer reached out and placed her fingers on his forearm. “Mr. Madison, I realize this is—”
“Madison?” Ryan asked. He stared down at the spot on his skin where her fingers rested. They were warm and soft, delicately boned and oddly comforting. “You’re telling me my name isn’t Madison, it’s Mulholland.” A soft chuckle slipped from Ryan’s throat. The sheer absurdity of the situation was more than he could take in. “You’re wrong. You’re looking for someone else, some other guy born on October 23, 1974. Not me.” He pushed the birth certificate back at her. He was the son of Jeffrey and Rhonda Madison.
She held out another item and he noticed it was a photograph of himself—or was it? He snatched it from her fingers and stared at the image, the face so like his, yet just a bit different.
“That’s your brother, Ben. Your twin.”
“This is not my brother,” Ryan insisted. “I don’t have a brother.” But though he said the words, he wasn’t certain they were true. The man in the photo looked remarkably like the man he saw every morning in the mirror as he shaved.
“If that’s true, we can clear this up very quickly. I need you to come to San Antonio with me. There’s a doctor there waiting to give you a blood test.”
Ryan
