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Inspector Greenman ushered me out of the conference room and waved me toward the exit.
When I got back into my car, I locked the door, fastened my seat belt, and let out a breath. Then I opened my mother's handbag. There wasn't a lot to look at, but I started with a black wallet, which contained a driver's license with the name Laura Hawthorne on it and an address in San Francisco.
The face of Laura Hawthorne matched my mother's face. There was one credit card in the same name, and the photo of my mother holding me and Danielle. It was old and faded, ripped at one corner, and bent in the middle. There were two twenties in the billfold, along with a couple of quarters. In addition to the wallet, there was a lip gloss, a pair of reading glasses, sunglasses, a packet of tissues, and something that looked like a program for a musical concert. There were also a couple of keys on a ring that was shaped like a musical note.
A wave of disappointment ran through me. I had hoped to get more clues to her life.
I set down the bag and reached for my phone. I punched in my father's number. It rang four times and went to voicemail again. This time I left a message: "It's Brynn," I said, knowing that my dad couldn't always tell my voice from Dani's. "I have some strange news, something I need to talk to you about as soon as possible. Dani doesn’t know anything about it yet, so don't call her, call me. It's urgent, Dad. Please, I need to hear from you as soon as possible."
I put the phone down and debated my next move. I should find a hotel, but there was no way I was going to sleep now. I felt too wired and amped up. I needed to know more about my mother's life. I pulled her ID out of her bag, put the address into the car's navigation system, and then started the car.
My mom lived ten minutes from the hospital and a few blocks from the infamous corner of Haight and Ashbury, where the sixties hippie movement had once flourished. Now it was an eclectic neighborhood of cafés, tattoo parlors, and vintage clothing stores. Mixed in with the old businesses were trendy juice bars, tea shops, an art gallery, and an organic market. Almost all the businesses were closed, with the exception of a few bars and restaurants.
As I left the business area, I drove a few more blocks, then turned down my mother's street. My pulse raced as I parked in front of her house, which was a three-story Victorian-style building. There was a gray truck parked in the driveway. I wondered if that belonged to my mother or to her tenant, although I didn't see lights on anywhere in the house.
I grabbed her keys and got out of the car, a shiver running down my spine. It was quiet, almost too quiet. I didn't know exactly where my mother had been shot. The street was very dark now, the nearest streetlight twenty yards away. The thought of accidentally walking through her blood made me sick to my stomach, so I moved quickly toward the steps leading up to her property. As I neared the front of the building, I saw a door off to the left side. That must belong to the studio apartment. I went up another set of stairs to her porch.
When I reached the door, I hesitated.What was I doing here? Was I really going to enter her house?She might have once been my mother, but that had been a very long time ago. She was a stranger to me now.
On the other hand, she'd asked the nurse to call me. She'd wanted to apologize. She couldn't tell me why she'd faked her death, but maybe there were clues in this house. I took out the keys and tried them one at a time. On the third attempt, I got lucky. The door opened.
The interior was dark, and I was happy to find a light switch just inside the door. As the light went on, a long hallway was illuminated, with doors appearing to open to several other rooms along the way. Right next to me was the entry to the living room. I closed the door behind me and moved into the living room, turning on more lights as I did so.
The room was charming and filled with color. Three walls were light blue, while one wall was painted maroon. A white sofa and two floral-covered chairs faced each other on either side of a fireplace. Each piece of furniture had a bright pillow and a throw blanket over the back. There were lots of paintings on the walls, but no photographs.
I left the living room to explore the rest of the house. A guest bathroom was across from what appeared to be a guest bedroom, judging by the size of the room and the impersonal feel to the décor. Farther down the hall, I found a kitchen and family room as well as a staircase. I moved up the stairs and discovered the master bedroom and bath.
A window was open in the bedroom, a light breeze blowing the curtain in front of it.
The bed was unmade, a soft cocoon of blankets and pillows, but only one side of the bed appeared to have been slept in. There wasn't any evidence that a man lived in this house or even a roommate of any gender.
I walked back down the stairs and looked around the kitchen and family room. There were no photographs here, either. But there had to be some clues to my mother's life.
As my gaze drifted across the room, I let out a gasp. In the corner was a violin, and it took me back in time.
My mother had played the violin almost every night, and she'd taught me how to play before I was in kindergarten. The music had bonded us in inexplicable ways and seeing the instrument now sent a deep, aching pain through me. I'd kept on playing after she died because I'd wanted to stay close to her. When her face faded from my mind, it would reappear when I played. My music kept her alive. It had gotten me through the horrible days when missing her had consumed me, had made me feel like I'd lost a piece of myself.
I moved across the room and picked up the violin, running my fingers over the wood and the strings. It wasn't the violin she'd played with me. She'd left that behind when she'd gone to New Orleans, but this one looked old. It showed signs of wear but also signs of care.
More emotions swept through me as I remembered lying in bed on hot summer nights with the windows open, the strains of music floating through the air as my mother would play in the garden. It had always soothed me, made me feel like everything was right in the world. I'd fall asleep to her music and then it had filled my dreams.
At the sudden sound of a click, I whirled around.Someone was in the house!The front door opened, then closed. Decisive, purposeful footsteps came down the hall.
A wave of fear ran through me. My gaze darted around the room. There was a back door by the kitchen that led into the yard, but the footsteps were getting closer. There was no way I could escape. I held the violin in front of me like a shield, gasping in alarm when a man came into the room with a baseball bat in his hand, a look of grim determination in his dark eyes.
CHAPTERFOUR
"Don't come any closer,"I ordered as the man took a step forward, and I took another step back.
"Who the hell are you?" he demanded, a suspicious and threatening gleam in his gaze.
He had thick and wild brown hair that almost hit his shoulders and appeared to be in his early thirties. There was a shadow of a beard on a face that was strikingly attractive in a dark, intense kind of way. He wore faded jeans and a maroon T-shirt that was covered with splashes of paint, and his muscled arms were heavily tattooed.
"Answer me," he ordered, still holding the bat like a weapon. "What are you doing in here?"
"What are you doing in here?" I countered. "This is my mother's house. Who are you?"
"Your mother's house?" he echoed, surprise filling his gaze as he lowered the bat. "Laura has a daughter?"
