Confessions of the Heart

“I know,” she broke in. “But that’s not it. I’m not dreaming. I think the phone calls have something to do with my transplant.”

“But even if they do that doesn’t mean they’re coming from the donor’s family,” Michael argued. “It could be someone who knows you. Someone with a grudge who’s trying to get under your skin a little.”

She’d thought of that. Her aggressive style as a divorce attorney hadn’t exactly endeared her to the spouses of her clients, or to some of her own colleagues, for that matter. Still, there was something deeply disturbing and symbolic about the phone calls.

“Look,” Michael said. “I don’t want you worrying about this. The last thing you need is added stress.”

“I’m not stressed. God knows some days I feel as if I’m almost comatose.” Anna didn’t exactly miss the pressure cooker environment at the law firm, but a year post-op, she knew it was time to either go back to work on a limited basis or find something else to occupy her time. She couldn’t exist for the rest of her life in a world of little more than meds, naps and daily walks. She knew of other heart transplant recipients who were climbing mountains. She needed a mountain.

“You’re right. It’s probably nothing.” She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. “I thought I’d mention it, though, in case you want to report a possible security breach to Gift of Life.”

He made a final notation in her file. “A security breach is highly unlikely.”

“Right.” Anna knew of computer experts who could hack into the offshore accounts of major banks to search for hidden assets. In the right hands, she doubted the systems at most organ procurement organizations would present much of a challenge.

Michael slipped his pen into the pocket of his lab coat and closed her file. “You’re doing great, Anna. Your lab and blood work all look good. You keep this up, and I won’t need to see you again for another three months.”

He walked to the door, then turned and gave her a stern look. “But I’m serious about the stress. Don’t get all worked up about these calls. Unplug your phone at night if you have to. Give it a few days, and whoever this joker is, he’ll get tired of his little pranks and move on to something else.”

Move on to something else.

That was exactly what Anna was afraid of.

“SORRY YOU HAD TO WAIT so long,” she told Laurel a little while later as her stepmother carefully navigated her Lexus through the massive Texas Medical Center parking garage.

Laurel smiled. “Don’t be sorry. I know it sounds strange, but I always enjoy coming to the institute. The place is so amazing. Have you seen the Celebration of Hearts exhibit in the museum?”

The Denton A. Cooley Building, which housed the Texas Heart Institute, was indeed a marvel of twenty-first century technology, a state-of-the-art research, education and patient care facility named for one of the pioneers in heart transplant surgery. But Anna’s familiarity with the hospital was limited primarily to the eighth floor. “I never made it down to the museum.”

“Well, you should make a point to. They have a very impressive art collection, and a lot of Dr. Cooley’s personal mementos are on display, as well.” Laurel turned to Anna, her green eyes sparkling with exuberance. “I find something new and fascinating every time I go down there.”

“I’m glad you weren’t bored.” Her stepmother’s zest for life, for even the mundane, never failed to take Anna by surprise, but she supposed that was one of the things that had attracted her father to the petite blonde in the first place. After all this time, Anna could finally admit that Laurel was a lot like her mother. She wondered how different her life might have been if she’d come to that conclusion years ago.

She’d cut herself off so needlessly from the people who loved her, and it was only in looking back, only with the angel of death knocking at her door, that Anna had come to realize it was fear that drove her. Not ambition, not greed, not even her dislike and resentment of Laurel. Fear that if she cared too much, she might end up losing someone else.

Her mother’s death had affected Anna far more than she’d ever been willing to acknowledge, and her father—so much like Anna—had kept his own grief bottled inside. He’d refused to talk about her mother’s death, refused to allow Anna to talk about it. They’d both become very good at pretending and hiding their grief from one another. That was why when he’d brought Laurel home, without any warning, Anna had thought it the worst kind of betrayal.

She hadn’t been able to forgive him, hadn’t wanted any part of their happiness, because by then, she’d found something far more reliable and far less complicated than love. Success. Her professional life was something she had complete control over—or so she’d thought.

Deep in her reverie, Anna stared out the window as they pulled out of the parking garage and merged with traffic on the street. It was raining, and the rhythmic sound of the windshield wipers made her a little drowsy. It was a good thing Laurel was behind the wheel, she decided, resting her head against the back of the seat. Michael had given her the green light to resume driving six weeks after she left the hospital, but on biopsy days, she still had to rely on her stepmother.

Laurel had a few errands to run while they were out, including a stop at the pharmacy to replenish some of Anna’s meds, and by the time they finally left the medical center, it was after three and traffic was already congested. As they headed north on Main Street through downtown, Anna impulsively gestured to a parking garage on the left. “Pull in there.”

Laurel did as she was told, then flashed Anna a quick frown. “You’re not going into the office, I hope.”

Matthews, Conley and Hart occupied several floors of the J. P. Morgan Chase Tower, the tallest building in downtown Houston. Anna’s office was on the eighty-fifth floor, and on a clear day, she could glimpse the Gulf of Mexico. But Houston was a city at the mercy of a subtropical climate and the belching smokestacks from its dozens of oil refineries. A clear day in the downtown area was something of a rare occurrence.

“Anna,” Laurel admonished. “You really should go home and rest.”

“This won’t take long. Just drop me near the lobby, and then you go on home without me. You’ve waited enough for one day.”

“How will you get home?” Laurel worried.

“I’ll walk. I’m up to four miles a day,” she said when her stepmother tried to protest. “I think I can handle a few city blocks.”

“But it’s still raining.”

Anna held up her umbrella. “I’ve got my rain gear, and if it starts coming down harder, I’ll take a cab.”

Laurel found a place to park, then turned to Anna. “I’m worried about you, Anna. I’ve noticed how restless and preoccupied you’ve been lately, and I’m afraid you’re going to do something to jeopardize your health.”

Anna opened the door. “I have something I need to take care of, but it’s nothing for you to worry about. I promise.”

She got out of the car before Laurel could argue further and waved her on. Her stepmother hesitated for a moment, her brows drawn together in a deep frown, and then she reluctantly drove off.

From the lobby in the parking garage, Anna took the escalator down into the tunnels, a six-mile subterranean network that connected most of the major buildings in downtown Houston. The tunnels were air-conditioned and well lighted and contained everything from chiropractic clinics to offbeat boutiques, but somehow Anna could never quite conquer the oppressive feeling of being underground.

Hurrying underneath Travis Street, she rode another escalator up to the sleek glass-and-granite lobby of the Chase Tower, and then waited for an elevator to take her to the sixty-seventh floor where the offices of BMI Global Investigations were located.

The bell pinged and the doors slid open. As Anna stood back for the half dozen or so well-dressed professionals to disembark, she noticed a man at the rear of the elevator. He was taller than the other passengers, which might explain why her gaze was drawn to him. But Anna suspected it had more to do with the long, thin scar that ran from the top of his cheekbone to the curve of his chin. She’d finally gotten used to her own scar so the sight didn’t put her off, but she couldn’t help wondering what had happened to him.

He wasn’t dressed in a business suit as all the others were, but wore instead a dark-colored shirt and pants that seemed out of place in Houston on a muggy, rainy afternoon in July. The humidity outside was killer, but the man seemed oblivious to the weather, his fellow passengers and especially to Anna. He barely glanced at her even when they accidentally brushed shoulders as he got off the elevator.

“Excuse me,” he murmured.

A chill shot up Anna’s backbone. She could feel gooseflesh prickling along her bare arms as she was shuffled to the back of the car. Through the crowd, she caught a glimpse of the man moving quickly away.

But just before the doors slid closed, he stopped suddenly and glanced back, his gaze searching the elevator as he lifted a hand to the back of his neck.

BMI WAS A LARGE private investigation firm founded by two former H.P.D. homicide detectives and an ex-FBI special agent who’d worked out of the field office in Houston for over a decade. They now employed over a dozen certified investigators and a specialized support staff that included computer experts and forensic accountants who were masters at ferreting out hidden assets and undisclosed bank accounts, a service Anna had found invaluable over the years.

Matthews, Conley and Hart used the P.I. firm exclusively, and Anna had worked with all three of the principle investigators at one time or another. They each had their talents and areas of expertise, but she felt a little more comfortable with Tom Bellows. He was the oldest of the three, and he’d always secretly reminded her of her father.

The receptionist did a double take when she first saw Anna step through the doorway, and then she gave her a wary greeting. “Hello, Ms. Sebastian. We haven’t seen you in quite a while. Do you have an appointment?”

No inquiry as to her health, Anna noticed, but she could hardly blame the girl. Before Anna got sick, she would breeze into the office for a quick consultation with one of the investigators, barely giving whoever was behind the desk the time of day. She was ashamed now to admit that she’d never taken the time to learn the receptionist’s name. Nor had she ever noticed how pretty the girl was, with her long, silky hair and crystalline green eyes.

Anna glanced at the brass plate on the corner of the desk and committed the name to memory. “Hello, Juliette. I don’t have an appointment, but I really need to see Tom Bellows. Is he in?”

“Hold on and I’ll check.”

“Thanks.” Anna smiled her appreciation, and the receptionist was clearly stunned by her new, cordial demeanor.

When Juliette hung up the phone, she said in a careful voice, “You can go on back. Mr. Bellows has a few minutes before his next appointment.” She glanced at Anna, and then quickly looked away, as if she wasn’t quite sure how to respond to her.

Anna thanked her again, and then started down the hall to Tom Bellows’s office. He was standing in the doorway waiting for her. At fifty-five, he was still a fit and handsome man with silver hair, piercing blue eyes and a tanned, weathered complexion that attested to his passion for deep-sea fishing.

“I thought Juliette had to be mistaken,” he said in a serious tone. “But it really is you. Welcome back to the land of the living.”