had never cared for dolls or dress-up the way other little girls had. She’d been content to read books and experiment with her science kits. Buddy’s Bodies had been a favorite. It required the assembly of the human body from the internal organs outward. Another kit had been Living Chemistry, which involved many simple experiments.
Her father prodded Madison to get out of the house and “exercise.” She’d found that she enjoyed sports but she’d never been a real star. It took time and practice that she would rather devote to her kits. She’d earned a spot on her high school varsity tennis team. She wouldn’t have stuck with it except her father had assured her that a sport was a necessary component to be awarded an academic scholarship.
He’d been correct. Colleges these days required students to be “well-rounded” and those who qualified for a scholarship needed over-the-top grades, superior SAT scores and a slew of other commendations that would elevate them above the herd. She could thank her father for channeling her energy so that she set herself apart from other high school students across the nation.
From her earliest years, Madison had shown an aptitude for retaining obscure facts. They began playing the child’s edition of Trivial Pursuit when Madison was in the second grade. She still remembered her first correct answer. What animal has a day named for it? She could almost hear herself shouting out the answer as she jumped up and down. “A groundhog, Daddy. Groundhog Day.” The memory triggered a raw ache. This wonderful man had been her father, not some jerk who’d sold his sperm for cash.
Her mother hadn’t been good at arcane facts but Zach Connelly was a trove of information on far-flung subjects. In order to compete and win his approval, Madison had trained herself to remember facts so unimportant that they never registered with most people.
“Does it sound like your mother?” Paul asked in a low-pitched voice.
“A little,” she grudgingly conceded.
“What more proof do you need?” he asked.
“Proof?” Madison huffed her disgust. “This so-called transcript from a defunct clinic that everyone sued for all kinds of illegal things doesn’t prove anything.”
“No?”
“No!” she shot back in a tight, pinched voice. She’d never been a good liar. Evidently, he’d seen or sensed her reaction to several items in the transcript. The air in the room seemed to be charged the way the atmosphere heralds an approaching storm.
“No,” she asserted again in her most authoritative tone. “I don’t believe I’m related to that man.”
“A simple paternity test would prove it one way or the other.”
That stopped her. Madison couldn’t deny a test would be definitive. “I want to talk to my mother before I do anything.”
“Isn’t she in the South Pacific on a sailboat? It might be—” he shrugged “—weeks before she telephones you. Right?”
“She should call any day,” Madison said quickly. “I heard from her a few weeks ago. She’ll phone as soon as she gets to a port with a telephone she can use or when she meets someone with a yacht that has satellite service.”
What she said was true. She did expect to hear from her mother. Jessica had called every few weeks since she’d sailed from Fort Lauderdale with the stud-muffin she’d married. But Madison couldn’t honestly remember exactly when she’d last spoken to her mother. It could have been two weeks ago, maybe three. Madison had been so caught up with the business and looking for a new home that she hadn’t paid that much attention.
She needed to have a heart-to-heart talk with her mother now. It occurred to her that she and her mother had shared only one intimate, soul-baring talk. That had been the night her father had died. They’d discussed what a great man he was and how much he’d meant to both of them.
Her mother had been so agonizingly upset at losing the man she’d met in college and married the day after graduation that it came as a physical blow when she’d brought home a much younger man she’d met at a fund-raiser. It was even more upsetting when Jessica Connelly had married him less than a year after Madison’s father had died.
What had she been thinking?
Madison still didn’t have a clue. She’d always been closer to her father than her mother. It had begun in early childhood when her father had been more willing to play with her. She’d reveled in the attention and as she grew, Madison took her problems and her triumphs to her father first.
“Why don’t you at least meet Wyatt Holbrook?” Paul asked. “That way you’ll have more to tell your mother when she calls.”
Why don’t you go to hell. Although she was tempted to yell this at him, Madison kept her temper in check. “I need to talk to my mother before I do anything,” she insisted.
She knew she sounded a bit childish, but she did feel the need to talk to…Erin. That’s who she would have called about this as soon as Paul Tanner had spouted his wild tale. Erin’s death had closed that door irreversibly. Never, ever again would she be able to discuss anything with her best friend.
But even if Erin were here, this was a question for her mother and she might not check in for days or even weeks. When she did, the connection might be a hiss of static the way it was last time. But Madison wouldn’t have any choice. She would have to ask this question over the telephone.
She was meeting Rob at Erin’s home tonight to decide what to do with her friend’s things. She could talk to Rob. He had a level head and he was accustomed to listening to people with sick and dying pets, giving him a wisdom and empathy few others had.
Once she could have discussed this with Aiden, but those days were gone. Even if she could, she knew Aiden would insist Paul’s story was true. She could just hear Aiden saying, Why would a man like Paul Tanner make up such a thing?
“I understand how hard this has been for you. These last few days have been tough. Why don’t we go get the bill of sale for the dog?” Paul suggested. “It may help us decide what’s going on here.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
PAUL GAZED at Madison for a moment with what he hoped was an encouraging smile. He knew she wanted to get rid of him, to make the whole business with Wyatt Holbrook disappear. Not on his watch. “I’ll drive you out to your place. You can give me the sales receipt. Burgess expects me to bring it to him.”
She hesitated, then finally responded. “Can’t I do it tomorrow? It takes forever to get to Fisher Island and back. I’ve been out of the office for days. I’m swamped.”
“The sooner Burgess tracks down the person who sold your friend Aspen, the sooner he can pursue a valuable suspect or eliminate that person. Don’t you want Erin’s killer found?”
“Of course I do. It’s just that I doubt someone would sell her a dog, then kill her.”
“You never know.” Privately he agreed and Burgess must have, as well. Aw, hell. Maybe not. Lincoln Burgess was a piss-poor excuse for a detective—not exactly the best choice for a complicated investigation. Around the department, they referred to Burgess as “the missing link.” Over the years, it had been shortened to Link. Dumb schmucks thought it was a nickname for Lincoln.
“Well…I
