Of Poseidon

believed me.”
    She sighs. “Look, I know you miss Dad. But what in the world does that have to do with you being adopted?”
    I stand up, almost knocking over the chair. “Just forget it, okay? You’re my real mom. Dad’s my real dad. And Ra— Samantha —swerved to hit a deer. There. Now life can go on. I’m going to bed.” I stomp up the stairs and start peeling off my clothes. Now is one of those times when a hot bath would reincarnate me into a pleasant Emma. But I’m doomed to lukewarm everything for the rest of my freakish life.
    Deep down, I know I’m punking out. I should keep talking to her, keep questioning her. But somehow I ended up in the hot seat instead of her. Somehow it’s suddenly my fault that we don’t have an open relationship.
    I jerk the shower curtain open and step into the steaming water. It feels like I’m bathing in spit. Dumping shampoo into my hand, I work up a good lather. I stiffen when I hear Mom’s voice on the other side of the curtain.
    “You’re right. Dad did believe you,” she says without emotion. “But that man would believe anything you said. Emma, you were so distraught about it and so emotional. Of course you thought it was real. I’m sure it was very real to you. I’m sorry I laughed. I don’t know if I ever said that before. But I am. I didn’t realize it hurt you.”
    My lip quivers. I can’t say anything. It would be a simple thing to tell her it’s okay. To accept her apology. But I’ve held on to this bitterness for so long that I can’t just let it go. Not yet. So I don’t. She doesn’t say anything else. I never hear her leave.
    When I step out of the shower, my birth certificate is on the bathroom sink, along with a few baby pictures I’ve never seen. A picture of Dad posing for the camera as he cuts an umbilical cord. A picture of Mom, hours of labor etched into her face, but still smiling while she cradles a pale baby with almost-see-through skin and a cap of white hair crusted in blood. Me.
    Could it all have been staged? The birth certificate forged? And if so, then WHY? It doesn’t make any sense. But that could have a lot to do with how tired I am. Maybe in the morning I can look at these pictures with fresh eyes. I’ll even take the birth certificate to Rachel to see if she can tell if it’s real.
    Satisfied with my plan, I wrap a towel around my head genie-style, then wrap another one around my body. I open the bathroom door. And almost jump out of my skin. Galen is sitting on my bed. I’ve really got to start locking my balcony doors.
    He looks mad and happy at the same time. It’s only been twenty-four hours since I’ve seen him, but even sleep deprived and grouchy, I’m excited that he’s back.
    “I think your dad was a Half-Breed,” he says. He frowns. “And I never told Rayna I would teach her how to drive.”

24
    FRIDAY NIGHT is finally here.
    Galen makes the turn down Emma’s road, mentally reviewing the must-do list Rachel gave him for their date tonight. He’s determined to keep Emma engaged all evening; she needs a distraction even more than he does. She’s been hounding him with questions about her father. Galen told her everything the Archives said. She showed him the birth certificate—which Rachel confirmed was either authentic or the best fake she’d ever seen—and her baby pictures. It all just confirms what he’d already concluded—Emma’s father was a descendant of the half-breeds. He had the blond hair and the light skin. Plus, he wore contacts. Emma swears they weren’t color-enhanced, but Galen’s sure they were. They had to be.
    There are other coincidences, too. Her father loved the ocean. He adored seafood. He believed Emma when she told him about the catfish saving her. Why would he believe her unless he knew what she was? And as a physician, he had to have known about all her physical abnormalities. How could he not be a Half-Breed?
    But Emma resists all of Galen’s reasonings, based on the fact that it doesn’t “feel right.”
    Speaking of things that don’t feel right … He pulls his new SUV into her driveway, the excitement sloshing in his stomach like high tide. As he steps out, he notices how much he likes sliding down instead of hoisting himself up from a little compact death trap. He’s almost glad Rayna tied the red car around a tree—except that she and Emma could have gotten hurt. He shakes his head, crunching across the gravel of Emma’s driveway in his suede