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"Yes, but that's a massive understatement. I thought my mom was dead years ago."
Surprise ran through his gaze. "What? Why?"
"Because that's what I was told. Here's the deal. My mother's name was Kim Landry. She was married and had two daughters. Twenty years ago, she went to visit a friend in New Orleans when a hurricane hit the city. She was supposed to have died in that storm. We had a funeral for her. My father remarried. We moved on. When the nurse called me today, I believed it was a mistake, but it wasn't. Laura Hawthorne is my mother. She was alive all this time, living under another name, and I never knew."
"That's crazy," he murmured.
"It feels that way to me, too."
"How did the nurse know to call you?"
"Apparently, before my mother lost consciousness, she told the nurse my number was in her phone and that she wanted her to tell me she was sorry. Whatever that means," I added, unable to hide the bitter note in my voice. I suddenly felt overwhelmed by emotion. I stumbled to the couch and sat down.
Kade set down the bat and took the chair across from me, his gaze intent on my face. "Try to take some deep breaths," he advised.
"My chest is so tight."
"I know. Give it a shot. In and out, slow and easy."
I took his advice and felt a little better.
"The color is coming back into your face," he said approvingly. "I thought you were going to pass out for a minute there."
"Me, too." I drew in another breath. "Do you know anything about what happened today? Where my mother was shot? If she had enemies? Do you know anything about her? Or is she just your landlord?" The questions poured out of me.
"Slow down. I'll tell you what I know, which, unfortunately, isn't much."
"Start with today, with the shooting."
"I came home around four. The street was filled with police vehicles. A neighbor told me that Laura had been shot on the sidewalk, but they didn't know where the shots had come from. A bunch of people had called 911 while a few tried to render first aid. Help came pretty quickly from what I understand."
"Okay. What do you know about my mother besides what happened today?"
"She's a musician and teaches music. She loves art, and she's a big supporter of artists like me."
My brow shot up at that piece of information. "What do you mean?"
"She approached me a few years ago to buy one of my pieces. That's how we met." He tipped his head toward the painting on the wall next to us. "That's it."
My gaze moved to the stormy scene, a blend of blues, greens, and grays, a tiny boat bobbing on the water between giant waves. A distant speck of light called the boat home, but there was a sense that the boat wouldn't make it. "That's beautiful. It's also disturbing and dark." I swung my gaze back to him. "Sorry. I don't mean to be rude."
"That's exactly the way I want you to feel when you look at it—unsettled, unsure."
"Really? Does the boat make it to shore?"
"What do you think?"
"I have no idea. Sometimes bad things just happen. People don't always come home. Life can be a battle for survival."
"Exactly."
I looked back at the painting once more. It had many layers. I had a feeling I would see something new every time I looked at it. "You're really talented."
"That's one of my early pieces," he said, as I met his gaze once more. "I've now become interested in mixing paint and canvas with other materials. My work is constantly evolving. But getting back to your mother…"
"You said you met her when she bought your painting. Where was that?"
"It was at a show in Seattle. That was about two years ago. She contacted me after the show to say she loved it and wanted to buy it. She told me that the storm was a metaphor for her life. After selling it to her, we became friends. She was interested in seeing other pieces and supporting my work when she could. She talked me up to a local gallery a few months ago. They offered me a show, and she suggested I use the apartment downstairs while I was getting ready for it."
