“Because I’m likely the reason you’re here.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “But I expected you to be smart enough to know how risky it was to come here.”
“It was you.” I all but whisper it, hope and a million questions battling for the centerfold of my mind. “You had the photo delivered.”
“Yes.”
“Why? How did you know Paul?” I almost hate asking the question. She’s young, but what if?—
“Paul was my father,” she replies. “And I’m trying to find out why he was killed.”
16.Shawn
Beckett isn’t breathing.
She isn’t blinking.
She’s just staring straight at Lauren, her face far paler than it should be.
“No. Paul didn’t have kids,” she insists.
My chest aches, my stomach a pit of knots as I witness the array of emotions playing out over Beckett’s beautiful face.
Shock.
Disbelief.
Betrayal.
Pain.
“Well, since I’m sitting here, I’d say that’s not true,” Lauren retorts, her tone sharp as razors. The dislike she carries for Beckett is plain as day on her contorted expression.
But how can that be? How can she hate a woman she just met?
“How do we know you’re telling the truth?” I demand.
“I have a paternity test to prove it,” she replies coldly. “But that’s not what matters right now.”
“Doesn’t matter?” Beckett chokes out. She reaches for the handle but struggles to open it. “How can that not matter?”
“No. You have to stay inside,” Lauren insists.
“I need air.”
“Youneedto stay composed,” Lauren snaps. “They’re watching everything.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Look, you’re already here. There’s no changing that. But if they find out you’re not who you say you are, then you’re dead. Understand?”
Beckett glares at Lauren, her entire body trembling, but she stops trying to climb out and sits back against the seat. “Explain to me how Paul had a daughter I didn’t know about.”
“To be fair, he didn’t know about me until two years before he died,” she replies. “My mom died suddenly when I was eight, and I was sent to live with my maternal grandmother. When I was going through Mom’s things one night, I found some old pictures and letters between her and Paul. Along with a journal entry where she said that he was the father. According to her journals, by the time she got the courage to tell him, he was already engaged to someone else. You,” she adds sharply. “So, when I found those, I tracked him down. I was ten when I found him.”
“Ten?” Beckett chokes out.
I can see the betrayal written all over her face, and to be honest, I’m angry for her. How could a man who pledged his life to her, for better or worse, keep something as pivotal as a child from her?
Even if things went sideways, he should have been honest. Given Beckett the chance to react the way I know she would have: with love and compassion.
“Like I said, my mom didn’t tell him I existed. They were high school sweethearts and—well—here I am.” Her gaze remains cold. Calculated. There’s no warmth reflected, though I do see her reason for the anger toward a woman she just met. Even if it’s completely unwarranted.
“Clearly, you’re not happy we’re here, so why did you send that photograph to Beckett?” I demand, trying to shift the conversation in hopes I can give Beckett some time to catch her breath.
