“Your glasses, for instance,” Dr. Mirren said. “Until a few weeks ago, you wore large glasses with tortoiseshell frames.”
Baffled, Sky nodded. She’d chosen the understated wire-rims on impulse during her last visit to the eye doctor. Even ordered a pair of contacts, which she now wore almost as often as her glasses. “My vision changed and I needed a new prescription, that’s all.”
“Instead of frames that conceal a large portion of your face—your looks—you chose an attractive pair that draw attention to you, not away. A man’s attention, perhaps.”
Sky felt her spine stiffen. “I don’t want men to notice me.”
“For years you haven’t. Now that you’ve begun dealing with the rape, your outer self is changing. Your clothes are different, too. You’re wearing black today probably because you attended a funeral, but you wear more colorful clothes than you did when you first started therapy.”
“My wardrobe needed updating.” Sky turned and stared out the window at the glowing ball of the full moon. A month or so ago, she had walked into her closet and found herself grimacing at all of the blacks, browns and grays. On a whim she’d taken a rare day off from the lab, gone to the mall and spent hundreds of dollars on a new, colorful wardrobe. She’d had no idea what prompted the trip, just that all that blandness had suddenly made her feel edgy and unsettled. Restless.
Just like she felt tonight.
She turned. Dr. Mirren had remained in the high-back leather chair, looking her usual calm and serene self. “Okay, so maybe I’m no longer hiding behind big glasses and drab colors,” Sky conceded. “There’s some things I can’t change. And one of those is my relationship with Grant.”
“You faced him tonight.” Eyes filled with ready understanding, Dr. Mirren folded her neat hands in her lap. “You could have sent him a memo about your DNA findings, or even phoned. Instead, you went to him.”
“On business. I had to tell him about the DNA.”
“You don’t have to explain why, Sky. You just need to understand that for years your life has been focused on your work. Now you may be ready to also focus on a relationship. When, and if, you act on that is up to you.”
Massaging her right temple, Sky paced the length of the built-in shelves where antique decoys nested amid leather volumes. The ache that had settled in her head while she’d been at the FOP club had transformed into a throb.
Before she met Grant Pierce, she had felt so in control. So content with her life. So safe.
Her hand slid slowly down her cheek; she pressed her palm against her jaw where his fingertips had skimmed. When he first walked into her life, everything about him—his sinfully handsome face, burnt-whiskey voice and roguish reputation—had tempted her to turn tail and run. Nevertheless, she’d stayed put. Told herself she’d healed completely. Refused to acknowledge the inner wariness that spiked inside her whenever Grant got too close. For the first time since the rape, she had wanted a man.
As much as he’d wanted her.
Too late she learned the monster from her past still had her in its grip.
Now, according to Dr. Mirren, that monster was breathing its last breath.
Sky dragged air into her lungs that should have cleansed, but didn’t. She knew there was no way she could trust that she had truly closed the door on the past. No way to be sure the monster wouldn’t spring back to life.
No way she could risk doing anything about the searing need for Grant that still burned inside her.
Leaning back, feet propped on his desk, Grant listened intently to the party on the other end of the telephone. It had taken him five days to track down this lead that could be a starting point at locating Ellis Whitebear’s twin brother. Finally he was getting somewhere.
The next instant, Grant’s eyes widened. “Are you sure about that?”
“Positive. Ellis Whitebear became a ward of the State of Texas at the age of two months when his mother gave him up for adoption.”
“I need to take a look at those records.”
“They’re sealed. I suggest you direct any questions about his family history to Mr. Whitebear himself.”
Grant muttered a few choice words under his breath. Adopted. Sealed records. Mystery DNA. How much better could this get?
“Did you say something, Sergeant Pierce?”
“Nothing you’d want to hear.” Grant swung his feet onto the floor and started searching for the name he’d jotted on a yellow sticky note. “Look, Mrs….”
“Kanawa.”
“Mrs. Kanawa, Ellis Whitebear is sitting on death row at the Oklahoma State Penitentiary. I helped put him there. He’s not likely to schmooze with me about his relatives. Besides, the information he gave to the Department of Corrections doesn’t mention anything about being adopted. Which means Whitebear may not even know about it, much less the details of his birth family.”
“That’s highly possible.”
“More like probable,” Grant added. “Mrs. Kanawa, I called you with what I thought was a routine request for information. I figured you could check Whitebear’s birth certificate and read me his parents’ names. Then I planned to ask if you could check for a birth certificate for his twin brother. Now you’re talking about adoption and sealed files.”
“Nothing wrong with your hearing, Sergeant.”
The woman’s steely tone told Grant he’d better crank out some charm if he was going to get anywhere.
“Look, I’m a civil servant, too.” He added a soft chuckle for effect. “I know all about red tape. God knows we’re drowning in it here in Oklahoma City. But you and I can get around all that. I’ll skip asking you the names of Whitebear’s parents, if you’ll check his file and tell me what it says about any natural siblings. Specifically a twin brother. Yes, he exists. No, he doesn’t. That’s all the information I need from you.”
“Sergeant, here in Texas, sealed means sealed. No one has access to that file. Not even me.”
Grant scraped his fingers through his hair and held on to control. “What sort of paperwork does the great state of Texas require for me to get access?”
“You have to appear before the presiding judge in this county and show cause why the court should make that information available to you.”
“I have to appear?”
“Yes. I can fax you the judge’s information so you can contact his clerk.”
“Great,” Grant said, then rambled off his fax number before hanging up. He propped his elbows on his desk and rubbed at the knot of tension in his neck.
This late in the afternoon, the Homicide squad room was filled with detectives sitting behind ancient metal desks. Several talked on the phone, one pounded thick fingers against
