Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 77039 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77039 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
“Yeah. This is my dad. Sean Murphy.”
“Sean Murphy?”
“I’m not getting out my ID,” Dad says, “but yeah, I’m Sean Murphy. Now that you know who we are, maybe you can clue us in on your name.”
He looks to me and then to Dad. Then he finally takes my outstretched hand and gives it a firm shake. “My name is Jack. Jack Murphy.”
This time I let my jaw drop.
Have we just found the link between us and the Steels?
The reason why we’ve been getting the same messages?
“I think,” Dad says, “you should let us in. Seems we may have more to talk about than we thought.”
Jack holds the door open. “Yeah, maybe. Because Sean Murphy is…”
Dad walks in. “Me. Sean Murphy is me.”
The foyer is tiled with marble and leads into a lush living area, complete with a baby grand piano in black lacquer and white-and-gold wallpaper.
“Have a seat.” Jack points to the blue-and-burgundy brocade chairs and sofa. “I’ll get my mom.”
“Thank you.” I take a seat.
“I’ll send Margaret in. She’ll get you a drink if you want one.”
“That’s kind of you.” Dad sits in a chair across from mine.
They have help? I mouth to Dad.
He simply shrugs.
Clearly Lauren and Jack aren’t hurting for money, which is a good thing. If they’re somehow related to the Steels, maybe they won’t go after more money.
A young woman in a blue maid’s uniform enters with a smile on her face. “Good morning, gentlemen. Could I get you a cup of coffee? Some breakfast?”
“We’ve had breakfast,” Dad says, “but I could go for a coffee.”
“Of course.” Margaret—presumably—smiles. “Cream and sugar?”
“Black.”
“And you, sir?” She nods to me.
“Same. Coffee, black.”
“I’ll be right back.” She turns, still smiling, and leaves the living room.
Margaret returns a few moments later with a tray and sets it on the glass-topped coffee table. Fine china cups and saucers and a silver coffee service. The Steels themselves don’t put on this much of a show when they serve coffee. Margaret pours us each a cup and then leaves again.
I take a sip. Strong and a little bitter. Perfect.
“She knows how to brew a damned fine cup,” I say to Dad.
He doesn’t reply right away. Until, “Red hair.”
“Jack?” I ask.
He nods.
“I’d call it reddish brown.”
“It’s still red.”
“We’re not related to every Murphy in the world,” I tell him.
“That kid knows something about my uncle,” Dad says. “I can feel it.”
“Dad…”
“The name Sean Murphy means something to him, and I don’t know this guy from Adam, so it’s not me he’s talking about.”
“Sean Murphy is a common name for people of Irish descent, Dad. So is Brendan Murphy, for that matter.”
Dad opens his mouth but then closes it when Jack returns, this time with an attractive older woman. Her hair is medium brown and cut short, and her eyes a searing blue. Dad and I both rise.
“This is my mother,” Jack says, “Lauren Wingdam. Mom, Sean Murphy and his son, Brendan.”
“It’s a pleasure.” Lauren shakes Dad’s hand and then mine. “I understand you have some questions about my mother.”
“We do,” Dad says, “and also about how you’re related to the Murphy family. Specifically a Sean Murphy.”
“First things first, though,” I say. “Your mother. Dyane Wingdam.”
Lauren takes a seat on the sofa, and Jack sits next to her. “My mother…” She sighs. “There’s no better way to say this. My mother is a psychopath.”
Dad widens his eyes. “Why would you say that?”
“Because it’s the truth.” Lauren pulls a small bell off the tray and rings it. “Just getting Margaret to bring me some tea. Now, what is your interest in my mother?”
“Apparently I bought the bar that I own in Snow Creek from her uncle,” Dad says.
“Okay.” Lauren blinks her blue eyes. “So?”
“That’s not the main thing,” I say. “I don’t mean to bring up anything that’s difficult for you to discuss, but did you give up a son for adoption about”—I calculate in my head—“twenty-seven or so years ago?”
Lauren looks down.
“I’m sorry, I—”
She meets my gaze. “No. It’s all right. Yes, I did. The child was…”
Jack pats his mother’s hand. “You don’t have to do this, Mom.”
“It’s okay, honey.” She swallows. “Jack was—”
Margaret enters. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Some tea, please, Margaret. And coffee for Jack.”
“Right way.”
Lauren sighs. “Now, where was I?”
“The child you gave up,” I prompt.
“Right. Jack was only three at the time. He was on a sleepover at my mother’s house, and I was home alone.”
“Here?” I ask.
“Oh, no. We didn’t have this house back then. Jack and I lived in a mobile home in north Denver. Anyway”—her voice cracks—“a group of three men broke in while Jack was gone and they…” She closes her eyes. “Well, you can guess what they did. The child was the result. I didn’t want to terminate the pregnancy, but I couldn’t keep him. Every time I looked at him, I would have remembered. Carrying him for nine months was difficult enough. So I gave him up.”