massaged her temple, fighting an agitation-induced headache. The one that indicated the onslaught of a seizure. Her medication helped immensely, but occasionally she still experienced the episodes. They were mild, not epileptic in nature, and her symptoms mimicked a bad migraine—she became disoriented, slipped into a trancelike state for a few minutes—but they still embarrassed her and made her feel flawed. Besides, the attacks always left her physically exhausted and slightly depressed.
Other questions assailed her. What if her mother had never told her father about her existence? What if one of her parents could accept her and be proud that she’d become an independent young woman? A physical therapist, when so many people hadn’t believed she’d succeed.
What if your parents are happily married to other people and have families of their own? What if they’re ashamed of you, the bastard child?
What if you weren’t born out of a night of passion?
Are you prepared for an ugly truth like that?
How could she go on not knowing, though? She’d lived in darkness all her life, her past an empty vacuum—at least this was one door she could open, look through, then close it if need be.
She braced herself for the worst. “Tell me what you discovered.”
He sighed and reached for a cigarette, this time relenting and lighting up. The stench of smoke filled the air, his shaky rasp of contentment following. “Your mother’s name was Candace Latone.”
Candace? She savored the name for a moment. “Was Latone her maiden name or married name?”
“She wasn’t married.”
“What else can you tell me?”
“She was young. Gave birth to you in Savannah, Georgia.” He hesitated, his reluctancy to answer her palpable.
“What?” Anger tightened her throat. “I’m paying you for the truth, not to sugarcoat it.”
“All right.” He wheezed, his cheap suit coat rattling as he swiped at the perspiration on his face. “She spent some time in a hospital down there.”
“You mean she worked at one? Was she a nurse, an aide, a doctor? What?”
“She was a patient, Miss Fagan. She attended college in Savannah and got involved in some kind of research experiment at the hospital where she volunteered.”
“What kind of experiment?”
“I haven’t been able to find that out. Records are sealed. No one is talking.”
“And my father?”
“Nothing so far.”
Her mind veered off on a tangent—could the research experiment have caused her seizure disorder? The doctors hadn’t been able to explain the exact cause, but suggested it was genetic. And though not life threatening, the disorder deterred people from adopting her. Worse, she was afraid she might pass it on to a child. Maybe if she discovered the cause, the doctors could prevent her offspring from inheriting the condition.
“If I were you, I’d forget the search.” He stood, inhaling smoke and shuffling papers, his demeanor indicating an end to their meeting.
“Can you keep looking?” Melissa asked.
“I told you everything, Miss Fagan. Now, I’d let sleeping dogs lie.”
Melissa shivered and gripped the chair edge. She didn’t believe him. He was hiding something.
Still, learning her mother’s name should have been enough. Melissa had been born in Savannah; she had a place to start. But the fact that Candace had been involved in a research project, and that Melissa suffered from seizures no one could explain, triggered more questions. “All right, thank you for your help.”
He snapped the file closed as if glad to be finished with it. “Goodbye, Miss Fagan.”
Melissa headed to the door, still contemplating his odd behavior. The elevator dinged, and she waited for the people to exit, then stepped inside, fighting off the stench of body odors, stifling perfumes and smoke lingering inside.
Frustration clawed at her as the doors closed, claustrophobia choking her. She pulled at her collar and inhaled, wrestling with bitter memories of being locked in a small room by her foster parents. They’d claimed they wanted to prevent her from wandering around at night, had been afraid she’d stumble into something. Instead, they’d confined her like a prisoner.
The elevator whirled to a stop, the doors buzzed open, and she stepped outside, breathing in the fresh air. A warm spring breeze brushed her neck, the scents of freshly baked bread and Italian cuisine floating from the neighborhood restaurant. The hum of Atlanta traffic whizzed around her—a horn blowing, a siren wailing, pedestrians passing. A homeless man in ratty clothes reeking of booze and filth hugged a bottle of wine to his chest, his glassy eyes staring up at her, glazed and disoriented. Compassion filled her. She understood how it felt to be homeless, unwanted.
She slipped inside a neighboring bagel shop, bought a bagful of bagels and a cup of hot coffee, then hurried out and handed them to him. Then she hailed a cab. At least she had more information than she’d had the day before.
Tomorrow, she would check out the research park in Savannah and get a job there. Once she located her parents, she could put the past to rest.
ERIC STILL COULDN’T believe he was alive.
Although the pain he had endured for the past few months had been excruciating, the doctors had claimed his strong will had brought him through.
Eric knew differently. He had survived so he could get revenge.
So he could find the person responsible for killing his witness and make him pay. And when he’d learned that the killer had also tried to murder his brother, an innocent woman and baby, he’d decided to do whatever was necessary to catch him.
Even work with the FBI.
“You can’t go undercover, Eric. For God’s sake, you’re in a wheelchair. You’re too vulnerable.”
Eric rubbed a hand along his jaw, ignoring the distress on Cain’s face. “I don’t want your damn pity, Cain. And I won’t be in this chair long.”
Still uncomfortable with the chair and his new image, Eric gripped the metal arms. But his new face beat the hideous one he’d awakened to three months before. And he would walk again, no matter how much physical therapy he had to endure.
“Hell, Cain, I thought you’d be glad I finally hooked up with the Feds.”
“But working undercover at the Coastal Island Research Park is too risky,” Cain argued. “What if someone realizes who you are?”
Eric pointed to the hospital mirror. “Look at me, bro. You didn’t even recognize me. How will anyone at CIRP, when they’ve never seen me?” He wheeled the chair toward the door. “I’m the last person they’d expect to show up as a patient.”
“I don’t like that, either,” Cain said. “Damn.
