“Do you have anything else that might indicate your father’s true identity? Maybe an entry in a family bible or a name on the back of a photograph? Anything at all to give me a place to start?”
She shook her head.
“What about the cottage?” He leaned forward and rested his forearms on the desk. “You said it had been in your family for years. There must be legal documents to prove it. A real estate title, for one.”
Sophie shrugged. “Maybe. Like I told you, we’ve owned it for as long as I can remember. I have no idea if there are any papers to prove it. I just figured possession is nine-tenths of the law.” She held up an object in her hand. “I have the key.”
A smile danced across her lips and Cain’s heart skipped a beat. There was something about her, a vulnerability hidden beneath resilience, a shyness buried beneath determination, that drew him to her.
He’d promised himself never again—never get emotionally involved with a woman connected to one of his cases. He’d learned his lesson the hard way and had vowed never to repeat it. This unexpected empathy he felt was unsettling.
DIANE BURKE
is the mother of two grown sons and the grandmother of three wonderful growing-like-weeds grandsons. She has two daughters-in-law who have blessed her by their addition to her family. She lives in Florida, nestled somewhere between the Daytona Beach speedway and the St. Augustine fort, with Cocoa, her golden Lab, and Thea, her border collie. Thea and Cocoa don’t know they are dogs, because no one has ever told them. Shhhh.
When she was growing up, her siblings always believed she could “exaggerate” her way through any story and often waited with bated breath to see how events turned out, even though they had been present at most of them. Now she brings those stories to life on the written page.
Her writing has earned her numerous awards, including a Daphne du Maurier Award of Excellence.
She would love to hear from her readers. You can contact her at [email protected].
Double Identity
Diane Burke
Be humble and gentle.
Be patient with each other, making allowances for each other’s faults because of your love.
—Ephesians 4:2
To Michele,
a wonderful and warm new addition to our family. You had just the right touch of enthusiasm, encouragement and gentle prodding to keep me at the keyboard.
And
a special thanks to Vincent Gimmelli,
nephew of my heart, who let me borrow his name.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
LETTER TO READER
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
ONE
“According to this report, Miss Clarkston, you do not exist.”
Cain Garrison looked up from the file folder lying on his desk. He had to admit he was intrigued. It had been quite a while since anyone had contracted his private investigator services for anything more than getting the goods on a cheating husband or following up on insurance fraud. Usually, it was so quiet in the small town of Promise, Virginia, that he found most of his work in neighboring counties or in the city of Charlottesville.
Tapping his index finger on the folder, he said, “Your birth certificate and social security card are phony.” His eyes locked with hers. “Okay, I’ll take the bait. Who are you really and what do you want from me?”
He leaned back in his chair and studied the petite young woman sitting in front of him. If he had to guess, he’d say she was in her early twenties. Thick ebony hair covered her shoulders and trailed down her back. She wore a T-shirt, jeans, sneakers and little, if any, makeup. But then she didn’t need any.
She squared her shoulders. He might have bought into her calm-and-collected facade if he hadn’t noticed her ramrod straight posture as she perched on the edge of her chair and her white knuckles from the tight clasp of her hands.
“My name is Sophia Joy Clarkston but everybody calls me Sophie. I was born twenty-two years ago to Elizabeth and Anthony Clarkston. My mother died in a car accident shortly after I was born. My dad raised me.” Her lips pursed in distaste and she nodded toward the folder on his desk. “I don’t care what lies are written on that piece of paper. I know who I am. I need you to find my dad.”
Ahh, the plot thickens. Cain tried to hide the smile pulling at his lips. This must be his sister’s idea of a prank. He’d been complaining lately about being bored. Voilà. Phony case that she knew he’d salivate over. Okay, he’d play the game. Why not?
“Your dad’s missing?”
Sophie chewed on her bottom lip and nodded. She smoothed her jeans, picking at pretend lint, trying unsuccessfully to hide her nervousness.
“Adults aren’t usually considered missing, Miss Clarkston. My experience has taught me most people leave of their own volition, mostly because they’re just tired of being where they are or with the people around them. How long ago did your father disappear and what makes you think this qualifies as a missing person case?”
“He’s been gone two weeks now.” She rummaged in the tote bag resting at her feet and withdrew a white piece of paper. “I received this letter a couple of days after he left.”
Cain reached across the desk and accepted the letter from her hand. He knew from the crinkled and stained condition of the paper that the note had probably been crushed into a ball, tossed in the trash, only to be rescued, folded and put away for safekeeping. If the variety of stains meant anything, he was pretty sure this note had hit the trash can more than once. Whatever the contents, one thing was evident. This letter had created a seesaw of emotions in this woman.
He read the first line. He blinked hard and then read the first line again.
By the time you get this letter, I’ll be dead.
Cain shot a look to Sophie. Sea-foam green eyes shimmering with an ocean depth of emotions stared back at him. Maybe this wasn’t a prank. He focused his attention on the paper in his hands.
Sophie studied the man’s face as he read the letter—again—for the third, maybe fourth time. His chiseled features revealed none of his thoughts or emotions. For all intents and purposes, it was easy to pretend he was one of her sculptures. An inanimate object, consisting of carved angles and sharp edges, incapable of emotion.
Unless, like herself, he’d learned how to bury those emotions.
She’d