LITMIR.BIZ

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to that?”

      “Mr. Fiver, what’s this about?”

      Instead of explaining he said, “Please, just bear with me for a moment, Ms. Robinson.”

      Hannah didn’t normally share herself with other people until she’d known them for some time, and even then, there were barriers it took a while for most people to breach. But there was something about Gus Fiver that told her it was okay to trust him. To a point.

      So she told him, “I only have a few vague memories. I know my mother was a bookkeeper for a welding company on Staten Island and that that’s where she and I were living when she died. But I only know that because that’s what I’ve been told. I don’t have any mementos or anything. Everything she owned was sold after her death, and what was left in her estate after it was settled was put into trust for me until I turned eighteen and was booted out of the system.”

      Not that there had been much, but it had allowed Hannah to start life on her own without a lot of the stress she would have had otherwise, and she’d been enormously grateful for it.

      “Is your mother the one you inherited your eyes from?” Mr. Fiver asked. “I don’t mean to be forward, but they’re such an unusual color.”

      Hannah had fielded enough remarks about her singularly colored eyes—even from total strangers—that she no longer considered them forward. “No,” she said. “My mother had blue eyes.”

      “So you at least remember what she looked like?”

      Hannah shook her head. “No. But I take back what I said about mementos. I do have one. A photograph of my mother that one of the social workers was kind enough to frame and give to me before I went into the system. Somehow, I always managed to keep it with me whenever they moved me to a new place.”

      This interested Mr. Fiver a lot. “Is there any chance you have this photograph with you?”

      “I do, actually.” Hannah had taken it out of the frame when she was old enough to have a wallet, because she’d always wanted to carry the photo with her. It was the only evidence of her mother she’d ever had.

      “May I see it?” Mr. Fiver asked.

      Hannah was about to tell him no, that this had gone on long enough. But her damnable curiosity now had the better of her, and she was kind of interested to see where this was going.

      “It’s in my wallet,” she said.

      He smiled again, notching another chink in her armor that weakened her mettle. “I don’t mind waiting.”

      She retrieved her purse from beneath the counter and withdrew the photo, now creased and battered, from its plastic sheath to hand to Mr. Fiver. It had been cropped from what must have been a studio portrait, and showed her mother from the chest up, along with the shoulder of someone sitting next to her.

      “And your father?” he asked as he studied the picture.

      “I didn’t know him,” Hannah said. “He’s listed as a Robert Williams on my birth certificate, but do you know how many Robert Williamses there are in New York alone? No one ever found him. I never had any family but my mother.”

      Mr. Fiver returned the photo to her. “The reason we’ve been looking for you, Ms. Robinson, is because we have a client whose estate we’ve been managing since his death while we search for his next of kin. That’s sort of our specialty at Tarrant, Fiver and Twigg. We locate heirs whose whereabouts or identities are unknown. We believe you may be this client’s sole heir.”

      “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Fiver, but that’s impossible. If my mother had had any family, the state would have found them twenty-five years ago.”

      He opened his portfolio and sifted through its contents, finally withdrawing an eight-by-ten photo he held up for Hannah to see. It was the same picture of her mother she had been carrying her entire life, but it included the person who’d been cropped from her copy—a man with blond hair and silver-gray eyes. Even more startling, a baby with the exact same coloring was sitting in her mother’s lap.

      Her gaze flew to Mr. Fiver’s. But she had no idea what to say.

      “This is a photograph of Stephen and Alicia Linden of Scarsdale, New York,” he said. “The baby is their daughter, Amanda. Mrs. Linden and Amanda disappeared not long after this picture was taken.”

      A strange buzzing erupted in Hannah’s head. How could Gus Fiver have a photo of her mother identical to hers? Was the baby in her mother’s lap Hannah? Was the man her father? What the hell was going on?

      All she could say, though, was, “I don’t understand.”

      “One day, while Stephen Linden was at work in the city,” Mr. Fiver continued, “Alicia bundled up ten-month-old Amanda and, with nothing but the clothes on their backs, left him.” He paused for a moment, as if he were trying to choose his next words carefully. “Stephen Linden was, from all accounts, a...difficult man to live with. He...mistreated his wife. Badly. Alicia feared for her and her daughter’s safety, but her husband’s family was a very powerful one and she worried they would hinder her in her efforts to leave him. So she turned to an underground group active in aiding battered women, providing them with new identities and forged documents and small amounts of cash. With the assistance of this group, Alicia and Amanda Linden of Scarsdale were able to start a new life as Mary and Hannah Robinson of Staten Island.”

      By now, Hannah was reeling. She heard what Mr. Fiver was saying, but none of it quite registered. “I... I’m sorry, Mr. Fiver, but this... You’re telling me I’m not the person I’ve always thought I was? That my whole life should have been different from the one I’ve lived? That’s just... It’s...”

      Then another thought struck her and the air rushed from her lungs in a quick whoosh. Very softly, she asked, “Is my father still alive?”

      At this, Mr. Fiver sobered. “No, I’m sorry. He died almost twenty years ago. Our client, who initially launched the search for you, was your paternal grandfather.” He paused a telling beat before concluding, “Chandler Linden.”

      Had there been any breath left in Hannah, she would have gasped. Everyone in New York knew the name Chandler Linden. His ancestors had practically built this city, and, at the time of his death, he’d still owned a huge chunk of it.

      Although she had no idea how she managed it, Hannah said, “Chandler Linden was a billionaire.”

      Mr. Fiver nodded. “Yes, he was. Ms. Robinson, you might want to close up shop early today. You and I have a lot to talk about.”

       Two

      Yeager Novak didn’t find himself in Queens very often. Or, for that matter, ever. And he wasn’t supposed to be here now. His assistant, Amira, was supposed to be picking up his shirt at Hannah’s. But she’d needed to take the afternoon off for a family emergency, so he’d told her he would deal with whatever was left on his agenda today himself—not realizing at the time that that would include going to Queens. By train. Which was another place he didn’t find himself very often. Or, for that matter, ever. This time of day, though, the train was fastest and easiest, and he needed to be back in Manhattan ASAP.

      But as he walked down Greenpoint Avenue toward 44th Street, he couldn’t quite make himself hurry. Queens was different from Manhattan—less frantic, more relaxed. Especially now, at the end of the workday. The sun was hanging low in the sky, bathing the stunted brick buildings in gold and amber. Employees in storefronts were turning over Closed signs as waiters at cafés unfolded sandwich boards with nightly specials scrawled in bright-colored chalk. People on the street actually smiled and said hello to him as he passed. With every step he took, Yeager felt like he was moving backward in time, and somehow, that made him want to go slower. Hannah’s neighborhood was even more quaint than he’d imagined.

      He hated quaint. At least,

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