The Third Twin. Dani Sinclair
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Alexis Mary Ryder had been printed with a careful hand in blue ink. A bold line with an arrow had been drawn from her name at the end of the column, to an insertion point above Hayley Hart Thomas. The letters DBH were written in the margin beside the line.
Alexis didn’t have to go far to link the name that went with the initials. DHB: Dennison Barkley Hart, her maternal grandfather.
Instead of answers, she only had more questions. One in particular overrode the rest. How had her grandfather known of her existence? Was this why she’d been warned not to trust anyone?
Her gaze swept the room. She took in the expensive furniture, the rows of books, the lovely stone fireplace. Was the money in that briefcase intended as a bribe for her father’s silence? If so, who was Kathy?
Alexis scanned the list of names once more. No one even close to that name was listed in the bible.
A headache began to pound with vicious fury behind her eyes. Alexis bit down on her lip. The note’s warning was obvious now. Her sisters had every reason to want her dead. Heartskeep should have been her home, too. She was an heiress. How was she supposed to deal with this?
Her fingers delved into the pocket of her skirt and touched the folded piece of paper Wyatt had given her. She didn’t need to call. She could go upstairs right now, find him and dump the whole mess in his strong, capable hands. He’d wanted her to talk. Well, she certainly had a story to tell him.
Except Wyatt was a cop. His warm, caring expression would change the minute she told him what had happened to her father—or rather, the man she had always believed to be her father. Someone had killed him for the briefcase—and maybe for what he knew. They would do the same to her when they found her.
Her father must have known how dangerous the situation was, yet he hadn’t sent her to the police, he’d sent her to a lawyer, but the lawyer was also dead. There had to be a reason.
If it had been hard to think before, it now seemed impossible. Alexis wasn’t used to being indecisive. Working as she did with runaways and pregnant teens meant making decisions every day. Standing here like a vegetable would accomplish nothing. She needed to hide the money until she could figure out what to do—and who to trust.
Retrieving the heavy case, she peered into the hall. There were voices at the back of the house. She listened for Wyatt’s deep tones without success. It was just as well. She had no idea what to say to him anyhow.
With no one in sight, she hurried up the front stairs. The second floor was eerily silent. The hairs on the nape of her neck bristled. She felt a stirring of malevolence, as if her presence disturbed something that didn’t want her here.
The notion was ridiculous, simply the fantasy of a tired mind. Subconsciously her brain was trying to make her acknowledge that no one was going to want her here once they realized who she was.
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