Deadline (Sandra Brown)

certificate?”
    “The original was destroyed in the house fire.”
    “That’s right. He used a copied birth certificate to enlist in the Marines. Easily fudged. Did he ever mention to you that he’d been adopted?”
    “No.”
    “Or give you any indication that he questioned his parentage?”
    “Never. The subject of his parents—”
    When she broke off, Headly asked gently, “What?”
    She struggled with her answer and finally said, “Was closed to discussion.”
    “Doesn’t that tell you something?”
    It was plain to Dawson that she was warring against the logic of Headly’s question. She fought back with the only argument left to her. “What difference does it make now who his parents were? It would be a different matter if he were still alive. But he isn’t.”
    Headly didn’t say anything either to back that assertion or to dispute it. Nor did Dawson. But their weighty silence spoke volumes.
    Finally Headly said, “I’m going to try to find the connection—if there was one—between the Wessons and Carl and Flora. But it’s been decades. The trail has long since gone cold. According to the reports I’ve read about that fire, the Wessons’ whole life history, fictional or true, went up in flames. And I’m running out of time. In a couple of weeks, I’ll be officially retired.”
    “Then why not just let it go?”
    He glanced at Dawson. “You’re not the first person to ask me.” He took several moments to carefully consider his answer. “I was resigned to living with my failure to capture Carl and Flora. Then I learned about their son, Jeremy. It’s a new development in a cold case. As a law enforcement officer, I can’t ignore that.”
    “Even though he’s dead.”
    “A murder without a body?” He frowned. “That’s a gaping hole, Amelia. A giant uncertainty that I can’t turn my back on. This story began for me that day in Oregon. I can’t leave it with an open ending like that.”
    “The story.” She turned to Dawson. “That explains your interest. You must’ve been dying to know what I knew about Jeremy’s history, which makes the tale even more intriguing, doesn’t it? Now I understand why you asked all those questions about his upbringing, his parents.”
    “I was hoping your answers would confirm a blood relationship with the Wessons.”
    “Or were you trying to establish that he was Carl and Flora’s love child?”
    “I don’t want it to be true, either.”
    “Of course you do! It adds such drama to your story.”
    “That’s not—”
    “All that playtime spent with Hunter and Grant. Were you looking closely for signs of a criminal bent?”
    “For God’s sake!”
    “And me. No wonder you’ve been so…attentive.”
    “Amelia—”
    Before he could say anything else, she held up both hands, palms out. “I’ve had it. I won’t listen to any more.” She stood up. “The story ended for me this morning after my court appearance. That gothic myth about Dirk…” She gestured with impatience. “I feel like a fool for giving it one iota of credence. Jeremy’s heritage, whatever it was, is irrelevant. He’s dead. Leave me out of your ghost chasing and get the hell out of my life.” She strode away and through the exit door.
    Headly turned to Dawson. “Are you just going to sit there? Why aren’t you going after her?”
    “Because I’m getting the hell out of her life.”
    “But—”
    “And I’m not going to discuss my reasons with you.” He figured Headly already knew them anyway. “You heard the lady. She wants to be left out of it, and, frankly, so do I.” He pushed his chair back. Before walking away, he said, “I’ll call a taxi. Thanks for the drink.”
    *  *  *
     
    Since her car was still impounded—and, under the circumstances, she never wanted it back—Amelia was driving her second car, an older model that had become hers upon her father’s death. Ordinarily, she derived a sense of comfort from being behind the steering wheel that had known his touch. But as she pulled out of the restaurant parking lot, her anger didn’t allow for any additional emotions.
    After the upheavals of the morning, she felt like she’d been put through a shredder and knew that she wasn’t up to being “mommy.” She placed a brief call to Molly Metcalf, George’s kindhearted wife, and asked if the boys could stay a while longer. “I need to go to Saint Nelda’s and close up the house. I’ll get it done a lot faster if they’re not