Silent Run

interesting mix of funky shops, clothing boutiques, tattoo parlors, restaurants, and coffeehouses. The streets were busy. It was Friday night, and everyone wanted to get started on the weekend. Julia hoped Alex Manning would be home, although since he hadn't answered his phone, it was probably a long shot. But she had to do something.
    She climbed the stairs to his apartment, took a deep breath, and rang the bell, all the while wondering what on earth she would say to him if he were home. A moment later, the door opened to a string of curses. A tall, dark-haired man appeared in the doorway, bare chested and wearing a pair of faded blue jeans that rode low on his hips. His dark brown hair was a mess, his cheeks unshaven. His right eye was swollen, the skin around it purple and black. There were bruises all over his muscled chest, and a long, thin scar not far from his heart. She instinctively took a step back, feeling as if she'd just woken the beast.
    "Who are you and what are you selling?" he asked harshly.
    "I'm not selling anything. I'm looking for Alex Manning. Are you him?"
    "That depends on what you want."
    "No, that depends on who you are," she stated, holding her ground.
    "Is this conversation going to end if I tell you I'm not Alex Manning?"
    "Not if you're lying."
    He stared at her, squinting through his one good eye. His expression changed. His green eyes sharpened, as if he were trying to place her face. "Who are you?"
    "My name is Julia DeMarco. And if you're Alex Manning, I want to ask you about a photograph I saw at the Legion of Honor today. It was taken by your father -- a little girl standing behind the gates of an orphanage. Do you know the one I'm talking about?"
    He didn't reply, but she saw the pulse jump in his throat and a light flicker in his eyes.
    "I want to know who the little girl is -- her name -- what happened to her," she continued.
    "Why?" he bit out sharply.
    It was a simple question. She wished she had a simple answer. How could she tell him that she couldn't stop thinking about that girl, that she felt compelled to learn more about her? She settled for, "The child in the picture is wearing a necklace just like this one." She pulled the chain out of her purse and showed it to him. "I thought it was odd that I had the same one."
    He stared at the swan, then gazed back into her eyes. "No," he muttered with a confused shake of his head. "It's not possible."
    "What's not possible?"
    "You. You can't be her."
    "I didn't say I was her." Julia's heart began to race. "I just said I have the same necklace."
    "This is a dream, isn't it? I'm so tired I'm hallucinating. If I close the door, you'll go away."
    Julia opened her mouth to tell him she wasn't going anywhere, but the door slammed in her face. "I'm not her," she said loudly. "I was born and raised in San Francisco. I've never been out of the country. I'm not her," she repeated, feeling suddenly desperate. "Am I?"

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    Excerpt @ Copyright 2011 Barbara Freethy
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    Chapter One

    Dear J.,
    We're going to have a baby.   I know I'm a coward to write, but I'm afraid of what I'll see in your eyes when you hear the news.   I know this isn't what you want, and I don't see how we can ever be together.   But I believe in my heart that you must know the truth -- you're going to be a father.   Now, if only I have the courage to send this letter.

    Katherine Whitfield sat in the front seat of her rental car, tears filling her eyes as she traced the handwritten words with a shaky finger.
    She'd read the letter a hundred times since she'd discovered it a week ago, hidden away in an old cedar chest in her stepfather's attic. She'd memorized every word, every curve of every line, wondering if it could possibly have been written by her mother to her father.
    There was no signature, but the writing looked familiar -- or did she simply want it to be true? She'd spent years wishing for the tiniest bit of information about her father, but her mother had always said they'd discuss it later. Unfortunately, later had never come. Her mother had died two days before Katherine's twelfth birthday, and she'd been left alone with a stepfather of only nine months and no other blood relatives anywhere in the world.
    Was it possible her real father had never known about her? Obviously the letter hadn't been sent. And she'd found other things in the chest as well, matchbooks, cocktail napkins, and a