Open Secret. Janice Johnson Kay
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me,” she demanded, her alarm making her more determined.
He let out a breath. “All right. Ms. St. John, you do realize you’re adopted?”
She stared at him, then began shaking her head hard. “No. No! You’re wrong. I’m not. I don’t know where you got the idea, but…”
“Your parents threatened to get a restraining order if I approached you. I should have realized they were too upset, under the circumstances. But I convinced myself… Never mind.” He looked at her with compassion. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way.”
“No!” She shoved back her chair, scarcely noticing when she knocked over her latte. The lid fell off and the contents splattered over the table and ran onto the floor. He rose, too, but she backed away. “You don’t know what you’re talking about! No, you’re crazy! That’s why they wanted to get a restraining order.” With venom she added, “I just wish they’d told me to watch out for you!”
The compassion on his face had become pity. “They couldn’t tell you, because then they would have had to admit why I wanted to talk to you. You would have asked questions. They hoped it wouldn’t come to that.”
“They wouldn’t keep a secret like that. You don’t know them!” At this moment, she hated him. “Don’t come near me again, Mr. Kincaid. I’ll call the police.”
She fled, all but running from the mall, looking over her shoulder to be sure he wasn’t coming after her. In her Miata she looked down to see that some of the latte had spattered on her white shirt. She saw it as if from a distance. She was floating outside herself, looking down to see the young woman thrust the key in the ignition with a hand that shook, back out of the slot and accelerate with a squeal of rubber on pavement.
She could not inhabit that body, because then she might actually start thinking. She might remember the sorrow on her mother’s face, just yesterday.
I’m different from you, she’d said.
I know. Tears had stood out in her mother’s eyes. Her voice ached with regret. I know, dear.
She might remember all those times when she’d felt as if her life was a set of clothes that didn’t quite fit, however she squirmed and corseted and padded to make them.
No, she would stay outside herself until it was safe to think.
She parked in her slot and ran up the stairs, wishing frantically that he didn’t know where she lived. She would set a chair under the doorknob tonight, to make sure no one could get in. She’d keep the phone right next to her bed.
Carrie let herself in, turning the dead bolt the instant the door was shut, gasping with relief to have reached sanctuary. If only she’d called her dad before she went to meet this supposed private investigator, she’d have saved herself some grief. She couldn’t even remember why she hadn’t. She trusted her parents.
A sob escaped her. In the middle of the living room, she let her purse drop to the floor, her hands suddenly nerveless.
“They wouldn’t lie,” she said aloud, her voice cracking.
Why was she so upset? So scared? She trusted them. She did. He was crazy!
Across the room, she saw the red message light blinking on her answering machine. Heart pounding, Carrie went to it, touched the play button.
“Ms. St. John, this is Mark Kincaid. When you’re ready to talk, my phone number is…”
With a cry of rage and terror, she hit Delete.
CHAPTER FOUR
HOW COULD SHE barge into her parents’ house and demand, “Am I adopted? Did you lie to me?” It would be like asking the man you loved whether he was having an affair. There was no going back from the question.
Soften it. Laugh and say, “I know you’d have told me if I were adopted, so I feel silly even bringing the subject up, but… I am your daughter, right? Biologically as well as legally?”
No. She wouldn’t ask. She didn’t have to. Why on earth was she letting this guy she didn’t even know shake her confidence in who she was?
Carrie moaned and rolled over in bed, pulling a pillow over her head. At this speed, she was going to have to call in sick in the morning. It would be hard to function without any sleep at all.
Pillow pressed to her face, she thought, Okay. Be logical. Analyze.
This Mark Kincaid. Was he really a private investigator? Or was he some con artist pulling a scam, or even some guy using the story to approach her for some creepy reason?
She took the pillow from her face and stared at the dark ceiling. She didn’t like any of those choices. Being the target of a con artist was scary, and a creepy stalker even worse.
If he was legit, at least she wouldn’t have to keep wondering whether her dead bolt lock was really adequate. But in another way, that possibility was the most frightening of all.
With a sigh, she flicked on her bedside lamp and sat up, feeling with her feet for her slippers. She should have done some research before she went to bed, but since she wasn’t even close to sleepy, she might as well do it now, instead of spending all night stewing.
Leaving her computer booting, she heated water in the microwave for a cup of herbal tea. Chamomile was supposed to make you sleepy, right? Then, with the teabag steeping, she went online and typed, Mark Kincaid—Private Investigator.
Several dozen options popped up immediately and she thought, Oh God, he is legit. There were references to articles in the Seattle Times, the Post-Intelligencer, the Everett Herald. Apparently P.I.s belonged to associations, like everyone else. Who knew there was a Pacific Northwest Association of Investigators, a Washington Association and even a National Association of Investigative Specialists? There were Web sites that sounded like they belonged to adoption search organizations, referencing investigators who specialized in finding birth parents or adoptees. And Kincaid Investigations in Seattle had its own Web site.
She clicked on that one and found that Mark Kincaid and his partner, Gwendolyn Mayer, offered a full range of investigative services, including domestic/infidelity, surveillance, skip tracing, workman’s comp fraud and attorney services. Adoption searches was a specialty.
No photos of the partners, for good reason, she supposed; P.I.s hardly wanted to advertise their faces, considering that following people and doing stakeouts was their line of work.
Mark Kincaid, she read, had been a Seattle Police Department homicide detective while his partner, Gwendolyn Mayer, had a ten year career with the Baltimore Police Department before coming west to join Kincaid Investigations.
Carrie printed the page as well as the one about adoption searches.
She sat back in her chair, trying to think calmly. So, Mark Kincaid probably was who he said he was. Unless somebody was using his name… Unlikely, she decided, remembering the way he’d watched people at the mall. He’d scanned the crowd with the eyes of a cop.
All right, he was legit. But he was wrong. Even homicide detectives-slash-private investigators could be wrong, couldn’t they? She wondered how they got enough information to find out that Baby John Doe had become, say, Baby Ronald Smith. Weren’t records traditionally sealed? She realized she knew very little about the issue. She’d never even had a friend who was adopted.
She clicked on one of the Web sites about adoption searches and read several short articles, followed by a checklist for the search.
Locate your amended birth certificate, she read.
How would you know if your birth certificate was amended? She was reasonably sure she had hers somewhere; she’d needed it to get a passport to take a school trip to Spain when she was in high school and then to go to London for a week with her parents when her father spoke at a conference there.
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