case.”
My alarm is ringing again, full volume now. “Then what’s it about?”
“This is so hard for me.” She wrings her hands and looks at the ceiling, then focuses her glistening eyes on mine. “I think-I mean, I’m pretty sure-Mr. Cage, I’m pretty sure you’re my father.”
CHAPTER 33
I’m pretty sure you’re my father.
Jenny’s words hang in the air like ozone after a lightning strike. My discomfort escalates to panic in a fraction of a second. This is the root of the strange fascination Caitlin picked up that first night. It’s something I’ve heard about my whole life, orphaned or adopted children convincing themselves that the father who abandoned them is some famous man.
“Look, miss-” I grope for her last name, then realize I never knew it.
“Doe,” she says. “Isn’t that pathetic? That’s my last name. Jennifer Doe. It’s on my birth certificate.”
I’m backing toward the door, which leads to the stairs and the second floor and the spiral staircase and the restaurant and sanity. “I think we’d better go back down.”
She holds up her hands in supplication, pleading for my attention. “I don’t want anything from you. And I’m not crazy. Please believe me. I’m scared to death right now. I’m so scared. I just want to know who I am!”
Hot, clear water bubbles out of the coffeemaker, for tea that will never be made.
“I can’t help you with that question, Jenny.”
“If you’d listen to me for two minutes, you’ll know you can.”
My hand is on the doorknob.
“Livy Marston is my mother!”
This stops me.
“I was born in February of 1979.”
My brain is working backward to the point of conception. February, January, December-oh hell, just go back twelve months and add three. If Jenny is telling the truth, she was conceived in May of 1978. The month Livy and I graduated high school.
“My birth certificate proves it,” she says in a defensive voice.
I drop my hand from the knob. “Let me see.”
She goes to the bookshelf, takes down my second novel, and opens it to the flyleaf. From there she removes a white sheet of paper, which she holds out to me. I don’t look at her face as I reach for it. If I did, I know I would be searching for similarities to my own.
The birth certificate looks authentic. Issued by the state of Louisiana, the city of New Orleans. The child’s name is listed as Jennifer Doe. What nearly stops my heart is what is printed on the line for Mother. Right there in black and white is the name Olivia Linsford Marston.
The line beside Father is blank.
“Jesus God,” I murmur.
“It was a privately arranged adoption,” Jenny says. “Set up before I was ever born. The adopting parents wanted the name Jennifer on the birth certificate.”
My heart is skipping beats.
She rushes on, her voice shaky. “I didn’t know any of this until a year ago. I spent most of my life in foster homes. I wanted to know where I’d come from. Who my birth parents were. I didn’t have anybody-”
“Jenny, slow down.” I hold up my hands. “I’m going to listen, okay? Just calm down and tell me your story.”
She looks frozen, like a strip of film stopped in mid-motion. The relief in her eyes is heartbreaking. If she wasn’t so caught up in her own emotions, she might realize that after seeing that birth certificate, it would take a winch to pull me out of her apartment. Already thoughts that haven’t meshed for twenty years are falling into place. Livy was pregnant our senior year. Or the summer following it, rather. And she carried the child to term. That is why she disappeared. I guess the assumptions I made about female reproductive biology in 1978 were about as accurate as my judgments of Livy’s true nature.
“Pour the tea,” I say dazedly. “That’ll calm you down.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Okay… you said you wanted to find out who your birth parents were. How did you go about doing that?”
“Well, like I said, it was a private adoption, which is big business in Louisiana, if you don’t know. It took a lot of work, but I finally learned the name of the lawyer who handled the adoption. Clayton Lacour, from New Orleans. I did some checking on him, and I found out he was well connected. Mafia connected. I was afraid that if I just walked in and asked, Lacour wouldn’t tell me anything about my birth parents. All the law required was that he ask my mother whether or not she wanted to be found by me. And I was pretty sure that whoever she was, she wouldn’t be too happy about me showing up on her doorstep after twenty years.”
Jenny’s voice is leveling out; the act of telling her story has distracted her from the fears bubbling inside her.
“I’d been around a little. I knew the street. So instead of marching in and asking my questions, I applied for a job at Lacour’s office. P.A., gofer, answering the phone, whatever. I dressed like a college girl-a loose one-and I made sure Lacour saw me when I went in. He practically licked me from head to toe. Took me into his office for a personal interview and hired me on the spot.”
Jenny would have made a good D.A.’s investigator.
“It was a race between finding out what I wanted to know and Lacour getting up the nerve to jump me right there in the office. Whenever I was alone, I’d search the place. I brought my lunch every day, told them I was dieting. File room, computers, his personal cabinets, closets, everything. A lot of the stuff had combination locks. It took five weeks to find out where everything was, and another week to copy it all.”
“What did you find?”
“Lacour handled a lot of adoptions. All privately arranged, always white babies. And for real money. Thirty- five thousand dollars changed hands when I was adopted. You believe that? I went through all his records and finally found the Jennifer Doe birth certificate. I’d always been called Jenny, every home I went to. So I copied the file and studied it at home. I found out I’d been adopted on the day I was born, by a childless rich couple from New Orleans. Lacour had made notes in the file. He thought the couple was trying save their marriage by adopting a baby. He turned out to be right. They divorced when I was two, and neither one wanted custody. I went into the state system. I was adopted by another family, but…” Her eyes glaze to opacity as she trails off. “I don’t really want to go into that. It was… an abuse situation. I ended up in the foster care system, and that’s where I stayed until I was eighteen.”
She doesn’t have to go into it. As a young assistant district attorney in Houston, I handled cases arising out of foster care that are still burned into my heart.
“All that mattered,” she says, “was that the file contained the name of my birth mother. Olivia Marston. It also contained the name of another lawyer, the one who’d brought me to Lacour’s attention.”
“Leo Marston,” I say softly.
“Yes. Judge Marston and Clayton Lacour went way back. They’d done a lot of deals together. Oil leases, real estate, you name it. What had happened was obvious. Marston’s daughter got pregnant when she was eighteen, and he arranged to get rid of the baby for her. I was that baby. What I couldn’t figure out is why she didn’t just have an abortion.”
“The Marstons are big Catholics.”
Jenny gives me the jaded stare of a runaway who has seen it all. “What’s your point?”
She’s right, of course. Livy’s sister had an abortion when she was in college.
“What did you do after you found that out?”
“I quit Lacour. But before I did, I stole everything pertaining to Marston. Most of it was files. The rest were tapes.”
