Death's Door

She climbed in and waited for Rob to come to his side. They hadn’t found anything, but the police had confiscated Erin’s computer and all of the records that she’d kept in the small desk in the corner of the bedroom.

Rob settled himself behind the wheel and started the van. “Trust me. Erin was too careful to leave any trail. There’s a firewall between people to protect their identities. Everyone in the group became hyperconscious of security when the FBI began to crack down on what they called domestic terrorism several years ago. A couple of animal rights activists on the West Coast were jailed.”

They parked in the lot outside Casa Carreta. During the years Madison had been growing up, Cubans and their culture had spread beyond Little Havana, the area of Miami where the first immigrants from Cuba had settled. Cuban food and coffee and music could be found throughout southern Florida.

It was nearly nine o’clock—early for the SoBe crowd, but late for dinner in this neighborhood. They had no trouble finding a table on the small patio. She directed Aspen to a spot at her feet, under the table so he wouldn’t be in the way. The smell of fried plantains reminded Madison that she hadn’t eaten since she’d grabbed a few crackers from the platter of goodies in the lunchroom, where Jade had set out the food from the reception.

“Erin used to have the palomilla,” Rob told her, but he needn’t have bothered. Madison knew her friend always ordered the thinly sliced beef laden with grilled onions and spices. Usually it was served with French fries but Erin always substituted fried yucca.

“That’s a bit heavy for tonight,” she said, her appetite suddenly gone. How many times had she shared a plate of palomilla with Erin? Never again.

“Why don’t we share it?” Rob suggested with a smile.

She almost said no but stopped. Why not? She would have if Erin were sitting beside her. Rob ordered palomilla and café cubano to drink.

“Is something bothering you?” Rob asked after the waiter deposited the coffee in cups hardly bigger than thimbles. “Besides Erin’s loss, I mean.”

As usual, the café cubano was so strong that it hit her stomach like a grenade and sent an explosion of caffeine through her system. She realized she hadn’t spoken for several minutes. She hadn’t meant to be rude, but her mind had been on Paul Tanner and her promise to consider meeting Wyatt Holbrook.

“Sorry,” she said, and gazed into Rob’s dark brown eyes. He was such a nice guy and he’d loved Erin so much. He had to be suffering even more than she was. She’d been thinking about discussing her problem with him. Now was the time. Maybe it would distract them both from their grief.

“Something strange happened to me and I don’t know how to handle it.” She paused, not sure where to begin.

“Run it by me. I’ll help if I can.” He reached across the table and squeezed her hand.

“Okay. A private investigator came to see me.” She pulled her hand from his and took a sip of her coffee. The story tumbled out in as succinct a version as she could manage.

“Wyatt Holbrook is your father?”

Rob was clearly impressed—not that she could blame him. Wyatt Holbrook was a big name in Miami, a city with no lack of stellar personalities. But just hearing Rob say that man could be her father made her feel uncomfortably disloyal to her real father.

“That’s what Paul Tanner claims.” The words were underscored with a hiss of anger. “Like I told you, the clinic closed in a hail of lawsuits for falsifying records and who knows what else.”

Rob let the waiter deliver the palomilla and two plates to share the platter. With it came a side order of pan cubano. The bread had been flattened on a grill and was oozing butter. When the waiter left, Rob asked, “Okay, so they tried to capitalize on some megasperm, but what reason would this private investigator have for manufacturing records to show you were Wyatt Holbrook’s child? I could see this as a scam if you were worth megabucks.” He shrugged and picked up his fork. “But you’re not. Wyatt Holbrook is the one with the money.”

Madison took a bite of the savory beef and chewed thoughtfully. This was what had been bothering her, niggling at the back of her mind since she’d read the transcript. “I don’t know. There must be some—”

“Look.” He reached across the table again and stroked her hand. “I know you loved your father. This doesn’t change anything. He raised you and loved you and made you who you are. Still, he might not be your biological father.”

She jerked her hand away from his once more and had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming it wasn’t true. “It’s not true,” she managed to say in an even tone. “When Dad was dying, we discussed everything. He would have told me.”

Rob offered her a sympathetic smile. “Not if he thought it would change the way you thought about him.”

Madison didn’t believe this—not for one second. “My father died of pancreatic cancer. He was in tremendous pain and they put him on large doses of painkillers. I doubt he could have resisted telling me the truth. He knew I’d love him regardless. The last words I whispered to him were I am who I am because you loved me.”

Rob took another forkful of food and ate it before saying, “Is there any chance he didn’t know?”

She remembered the transcript. Her mother seemed to have gone to the clinic initially without her father’s knowledge. From the way the nurse had sounded in the transcript, Madison had assumed her father’s consent would have been required. If—and it was still a really big if in her mind—her mother had gone through with the procedure.

“I think the clinic required both parents to sign the consent form.”

“Not true of single mothers, of course.”

“Of course,” she muttered, and put down her fork. Why was she even considering the possibility? She knew she was her father’s daughter.

“A paternity test would prove—”

“I know.” She ground out the words. “I know.” The stricken look on his face upset her. “Sorry I snapped. This investigator keeps pressing me. I truly believe there’s some hidden agenda here.”

“It’s okay.” He reached over and stroked her hand with his fingertips. “There is an agenda. This Holbrook guy is filthy rich. How much do you want to bet that he’s paying the investigator a bundle of dough to locate his donor-conceived child? So she can be tested to see if she could save his life.”

“I don’t know why, but I feel there’s another reason.”

“Madison, I realize you don’t want to accept this, and I’m not saying it’s true, but I can’t imagine why a man like Wyatt Holbrook would waste his time unless he believed you were his daughter.”

She had to admit that she agreed. “You’re right. I’m sure that man thinks I’m one of his children.”

“One?”

“Doesn’t the fact he donated sperm once suggest he did it several times since he needed the money? I’ve read up on it. A single donation of sperm can be divided and used more than once.”