Ugh, I need to be more organized. Where on earth did I put them? I shift forward, checking under a magazine, then the couch cushion beside me.
Bingo.
It’s not like me to mistreat my reading glasses like that, but I’ve also been under an extra load of stress lately.
I peer at the clock. Only a couple hours before Baptiste picks me up to go to the Hamptons for our beach weekend.
That should be plenty of time to make sense of this bizarre Golden Age situation.
The problem is, I have to do way more research than necessary, thanks to their weirdly written clauses.
I’m still poring over her contract when my phone rings. Neal’s name appears on the screen, and my heart jolts. I pick up at lightspeed.
“Hey! Have you found anything?”
“Sending it over to you now, but Helen Fletcher’s story checks out. She was in France at that time, and I have the details of her work and residence history.”
A cool wave of relief washes over me. “I knew it. Thanks, Neal.”
“No problem.”
He hangs up, and I open his email the next second. I print off all the documents he sent me and scan through his findings. Yes, Helen Fletcher did live in Metz the year Baptiste was born. Yes, shedid lose her job—and her dad shortly before that. I also have all the information on her dad and his role in the D-Day landings. It all happened just like she said.
Baptiste is right. When I need answers, I can’t just let things go. I understand why he doesn’t want to pursue his family, given how many times he’s been burned with false hopes, especially now that he’s made peace with it. But what if Helen is really his mother?
The proof is starting to pile up, and the mountain of evidence is getting hard to ignore.
I fish my wallet from my bag and retrieve the business card Helen gave me. She answers on the third ring.
“Helen Fletcher,” she says in a professional tone.
“Hi, Helen. It’s Harper, Baptiste’s friend.”
“Oh,” she says, blowing out a breath. “Hi, Harper. I didn’t think I’d hear from you again.”
“Right, um… I haven’t really been able to talk to Baptiste about what you told me. He’s extremely cautious since a few people have already passed themselves off as family members to get access to him—and his money.”
“Yes, you mentioned that, but I would never—”
“I know,” I cut in. “And I think I believe you. Actually, I was wondering if you’d be up for taking a DNA test. That way there’s no doubt when I talk to him about all of this.”
“Of course. Whatever you need,” she says immediately. “But you’ll need his DNA too. How are you going to manage that if he’s not on board?”
I release an exhale. “I’ll figure something out. In the meantime, I’ll send over a swab kit. Can you complete it and then send it back to me?”
“Of course. I’ll text you my address.”
“Thank you.”
“No—thankyou, Harper. I really appreciate you doing this.”
I hang up and bolt to my room, grabbing a large tote bag from my closet and throwing it onto my bed. I have no time to lose now. I need to swing by the office where we have the swab kits and send one over to Helen, all before Baptiste picks me up. I let out a groan. I knew I should have kept some kits at home, just in case.
I shove everything I’ll need for this weekend into my tote bag, which isn’t a lot—swimsuit, pajamas, a change of clothes, and a toothbrush—then rush to the door.
As soon as I step outside, I halt in my tracks, the hairs on my neck standing on end. The black sedan is parked at the end of the street.
Crap.
