I busy myself in the kitchen, whipping us up some dinner because doing nothing only leaves my nerves more raw. Harper barely eats, too focused on her research, fingers flying over the keyboardlike she can outpace her own thoughts. I don’t really touch my plate either. My appetite vanished the moment I saw that note.
“I can’t find anything on that holding,” she groans, tugging at her hair. “It’s driving me crazy. And why does that nameTopazsound familiar? I just can’t remember where I’ve seen it before.”
The new buyer of Golden Age is apparently some shadowy holding company with zero contact information available online. It’s the only real lead we have right now, and it’s going nowhere.
“Actually, I might know someone who can help me,” she says after a while. “He works in the Division of Corporations at the New York Department of State. If anyone can access the info, it’s him.”
She gives him a call, pacing while she talks and nodding along to his replies. After a while, she murmurs thanks, hangs up, and exhales.
“He’ll have a look tomorrow.”
“Good,” I say, trying to sound encouraging. “We’re moving forward. What’s the next step?”
“Well, as soon as I know who owns the holding company, I’ll track them down and see if I can snag an interview.” Her eyes light up despite the hurdles we’re facing. “I might also put my PI on it, depending on my gut feeling.”
“Straight out of a TV show,” I say with a small smile.
Even with the danger involved, I can tell how much she loves this. How alive she feels while chasing down leads. I’ve never seen her so focused, so sharp, so fully herself.
It reminds me of the feeling I get when I step onto the ice. When the noise fades, the crowd disappears, and all that matters is the game—our strategy, our will to win, the puck ricocheting across the ice and going exactly where it’s supposed to go.
“Yep.” She chuckles as she starts gathering up the documents spread all over the coffee table. “Let’s hope I’ll get the bad guys in the end too.”
I’m helping her stack some stray documents when a manila file slips from the pile and drops onto the carpet. It opens on impact.
I freeze when I glimpse my face staring back at me.
It’s an article—an old one, judging by the disastrous haircut.
I bend down to pick it up. “What’s—”
“Nothing,” she blurts out, her voice pitching high as she drops to the floor to grab the file before I can.
But a lifetime of hockey has sharpened my reflexes. I snatch it up first.
I narrow my eyes at her, trying to keep things light. “You have a file on me.”
Her chest is rising and falling fast. She forces a bright smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Just some stuff I printed out for your interview.”
My brow wrinkles. Why would she have old articles on me? Especially since the interview was published weeks ago. I open the folder, and my breath catches.
Dozens of articles about me, but also pictures of war medals similar to the one on my living room shelf. Pictures of that womanwho showed up at the hotel pretending to be my mom. French legal paperwork with English translations stapled to them.
My hands go cold.
“What—” I sputter, but the words die on my tongue.
I look up at Harper. Her face has gone red, hands twisting together, lips trembling like they can’t decide whether to speak or stay silent.
“Tell me,” I say. Two words that feel like they’re tearing out of my chest.
She swallows hard, then stands up and starts pacing again. “Don’t be mad,” she says, which is never a good sign. “But I’ve been looking into Helen Fletcher since we got back to New York. When I saw the medal at your place, I remembered what she told me about her dad participating in the D-Day landings.”
My jaw tightens, the simmer in my veins turning to a boil. “Harper…”
“Please, just let me finish,” she rushes on. “I confirmed the medal could have been awarded to an American soldier who landed in Normandy during World War II. And I checked every article and news interview you’ve ever taken part in—you never once mentioned being born in Metz, so she wouldn’t have known. I had my PI do a thorough background check on her, and as it turns out, she was in Metz the year you were born. Every detail she gave me checks out.”
“So what?” I snap. “That automatically makes her my mother?”
