LITMIR.BIZ

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Amanda. Concentrate. You’ve always been the practical one. If you’re not her biological daughter, the language becomes ambiguous.”

      “You mean our home might not be mine?” That possibility did penetrate the fog in which she groped. The brownstone was home. It might be lonely without Juliet, but every inch of it was filled with memories.

      “If someone contested the will on the grounds that you are not Juliet’s daughter, that might well happen.” Robert clasped her hands in a firm grip.

      “Someone must be aware of the circumstances. What about her brother, George? They’d been estranged for a long time, but he did come to the funeral. Surely he’d know...” Know where I came from. She finished the sentence in her mind.

      This was crazy. It was like spinning on ice in an out-of-control car. Every anchor she reached for slid from her grasp.

      “George Curtiss is the last person I’d confide in at this point. Don’t you see, Amanda? He can’t know there’s any question, or you can be sure he’d have brought it up.” Robert’s frown deepened. “There were good reasons for the breach between him and your mother. If half of what she said about him is true, he’d be contesting the will in an instant if he even suspected.”

      “Then what should I do? How can we find out?” If her uncle didn’t know...but he wasn’t her uncle, it seemed, any more than Juliet had been her mother.

      “First of all, it’s essential that we find any documents relating to you. You’d better have a good search throughout the house for papers. You must have a birth certificate, at least. We may want to hire a firm of private investigators to look into it. And whatever you do, don’t talk about this to anyone but me.”

      She blinked at that. “But my closest friends...”

      “Not your friends, not anyone. Not until we have a better handle on your identity than we do now.”

      Her identity. Amanda had always known who she was and where she belonged. Now it seemed she didn’t know at all. Who was she?

      * * *

      AMANDA WALKED THE four blocks home, glad to be outside even in the chill dampness of the mid-October afternoon. The wind was strong enough to wipe away some of the fog from her thoughts.

      But that didn’t help much. It served only to expose how much she didn’t know. She’d always been able to talk to her mother about everything. Amanda couldn’t begin to come up with an answer for her silence on this crucial subject. Why didn’t you tell me?

      She rounded the corner and the brownstone came into view—a three-story building sandwiched between two taller ones, looking squat in comparison. Someone was just coming down the three stairs from the glossy black door.

      In another step Amanda had identified him. Bertram Berkley, Juliet’s agent. She wondered, as she always did, if that could possibly be his real name, or if he’d taken it to fit his persona—the sleek, successful artists’ representative whose sponsorship, according to him, ensured entrée to people of influence in Boston’s art world.

      He spotted her and swooped down on her, kissing her ceremoniously on each cheek. “Amanda, my dear. You poor child. I just came by to see how you are. You surely haven’t been out already.” He made it sound as if she’d breached some unwritten rule of mourning.

      “I went back to work today.” Bertram’s extravagant manner always made her feel even more intensely grounded than she already was. “I have a job, remember?”

      “Surely they didn’t expect you to be back a scant two weeks after your mother’s tragic demise.” He linked arms with her and marched her up the steps to the door. Obviously he intended to come in.

      She detached her arm. “I wanted to go back, but I have to admit, I’m wiped out. I appreciate your stopping by.”

      His face stiffened for an instant before his dark eyes grew mournful. “Won’t you let me take you out to dinner?” He turned persuasive. “We can have a nice long talk.”

      “Not tonight. Another time.” She put her key in the lock and heard the usual answering bark from Barney, her yellow Lab, greeting her.

      “But I wanted to talk to you. We really must plan a show of your mother’s work, just as quickly as possible.” His voice became urgent. “A tribute show, you see. I’ve already looked into arrangements, and there’s considerable enthusiasm for it. A retrospective, including all her work, even the private pieces you have that aren’t for sale. If I could just take a quick look at what’s here...”

      “Not tonight,” she repeated, putting a bit more emphasis on the words. Maybe she was being unfair, but she suspected that his eagerness stemmed at least in part from a desire to cash in on the publicity that had surrounded Juliet’s death. “We’ll talk soon,” she added, then slipped inside and closed the door before he could come up with an argument.

      For a moment she just stood, leaning back against the door, relief sweeping over her. Home. It felt like a refuge at the moment. As long as she didn’t let her mind stray to the possibility that it might not be hers.

      Barney was pressing up against her, whining for her attention. She ruffled his ears. If only she could talk this over with someone. Her friend Kara would be ideal—she knew how to listen without trying to solve your problems for you. But Robert had said to tell no one.

      No sense in paying an attorney if you don’t take his advice. Her mother had said that when she’d been brought, reluctantly, to making out a will. Had she realized the will could be contested? Obviously not, or she’d have told Robert the truth.

      In a crazy way, that was reassuring. It seemed to show that Juliet hadn’t conceived of anyone thinking Amanda wasn’t her child. Not that Amanda doubted her love, even in the face of the news that had turned her world upside down.

      Barney nudged her hand impatiently, then let out a single bark. He trotted a few steps away and then looked back at her, whining.

      Supper? But he was headed for the den, not the kitchen. She frowned when he barked again. “All right, Barney. Enough. What’s so important?”

      He trotted toward the den and again looked back at her. Obviously she was expected to follow him. She obeyed, knowing he wouldn’t quit. “Whatever is wrong with...”

      She stopped in the doorway, staring, shivering a little when chill air reached her. The window that overlooked the tiny garden behind the house was broken. Shards of glass lay on the Oriental carpet. Fear kept her immobile for another instant.

      She should run, get out, call the police...but clearly the intruder was gone. Barney looked at the broken window with an air of triumph, his tail waving as if he announced that he’d vanquished the invader. He’d hardly react that way if someone were still in the house.

      “Good dog, good boy.” She patted her knee, drawing him back to her. The glass could give him a nasty cut on the paw. He came, rubbing his nose against her palm. “Good Barney,” she said again, holding him by the collar.

      Calling the police was the obvious next step, but a quick glance told her there’d be little they could do. It didn’t look as if the thief had been in here long enough to take anything. The only sign of disturbance besides the broken window was the painting that lay facedown on the rug, its frame broken.

      Amanda had to restrain herself from rushing to pick it up. Juliet had done that painting the summer Amanda went to camp for the first time, when she was ten. A realistic-looking view of a waterfall, it was very different from her usual work. But Juliet had been attached to it, and it had hung over the fireplace in the den since that summer. If it was damaged—

      She’d have to wait until the police arrived to see. She backed out of the room, dragging Barney, who clearly wanted to remain at the scene of his triumph. Amanda closed the door, ignoring the way he whined at the crack, and pulled out her cell phone.

      The police first.

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