The Real Allie Newman. Janice Carter

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СКАЧАТЬ He paused. “And he took you with him.”

      CHAPTER TWO

      FOR A MOMENT Allie was swept back into the Cataraqui River, the roaring in her ears just as it had been that day. The man’s lips were moving, but whatever he was saying was obliterated by a thunderous noise. Her mind flashed to Harry Maguire shouting at her over the boom of rushing water. But now, all she could do was stand absolutely still, frozen by the implication of what she’d just heard.

      “I don’t understand,” she said, her voice foreign to her ears.

      “It’s a long story,” he began. “Perhaps we could go somewhere?”

      Allie thought of Susan, waiting at the farmhouse, anticipating a cozy evening together. That would be impossible now, Allie realized.

      “I’ve got to call Susan and let her know I won’t be coming tonight. She’s expecting me.”

      “Fair enough. I can wait.”

      Allie looked from his face to the receipts now squeezed into a ball in her hand. She tossed them onto the counter. “I’ll be right back,” she said, and marched to the office at the back of the store.

      Fortunately Susan wasn’t the prying type. She accepted Allie’s explanation that something had come up with her usual grace. Allie promised to call her first thing in the morning, grabbed her backpack and returned to the front of the store. She’d had a crazy hope while she was on the phone that the guy might have taken his wild story and disappeared. No such luck.

      He was standing in front of the naturopathic medicines. “You take any of this stuff?” he asked.

      “Not really. But you didn’t come here to learn about holistic medicine, did you?”

      He stifled a grin. “Where would you like to talk?”

      “There’s a coffee shop down the street,” she said, and led the way out of the store, stopping to lock it behind them.

      “I was thinking of someplace more private,” he said as they started down the street.

      Allie cocked her head, looking up at him. “Such as?”

      “The park by the water. Or my hotel room. I’m staying at the Ramada down by the marina.”

      Your hotel. Yeah, right. “The park,” Allie said. “But first I want to pick up a coffee, if that’s okay.”

      He nodded. “I could use one, too.”

      They reached the coffee shop and went in to order. When the coffee came, he swiftly handed the clerk a large bill to pay for both, and Allie muttered a grudging thank-you as she headed for the door. He seemed to get the message she wasn’t interested in small talk and remained silent for the rest of the walk down Princess to Confederation Park on the waterfront. Allie headed for a bench in the sun, facing the water, and sat down without a backward glance.

      “Is that Lake Ontario out there?” he asked, setting his backpack on the grass at his feet as he sat down beside her.

      “The St. Lawrence River. The lake starts farther down that way,” she said, swinging her arm across his line of vision to the west. “See the outline of those islands? The biggest one is Amherst and the lake officially starts there.”

      “So where are the famous Thousand Islands then?”

      She squinted at him. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

      “Nope. First time in these parts, though I’ve been to Northern Ontario.”

      Allie frowned. “Are you American?”

      “Is it that obvious?”

      “No. Usually I can pick out Americans right away because of their accent. But you don’t have one.”

      “Maybe not, but you do.”

      The grin took at least five years off him, Allie thought, which would put him in his midthirties. It also made him, as Beth might say, unforgettable in the looks department.

      “Something wrong?” he asked.

      She shook her head. “No, just…uh…wondering why an American has something to tell me about my mother.”

      He liked that she got straight to the point, dismissing any attempt at niceties. “Right. Let’s get to it, then.” He flipped the plastic tab on his coffee cup and took a long swallow before turning to look at her.

      “As I said before, I’m a private investigator. Here,” he said, pulling a slim leather billfold from the inside pocket of his jacket. He flipped it open and withdrew a business card, which he handed to Allie.

      “Not long after that article about you in People magazine came out, I was contacted by a man in Grosse Pointe, Michigan. His name was George Kostakis and he was acting on behalf of his great-uncle, Spiro Kostakis.” He paused, watching her face for any hint of recognition and, when none came, went on. “He told me that you looked just like his second cousin, Katrina Kostakis.” Joel took another sip of coffee and studied Allie’s face in profile.

      She was listening attentively, frowning slightly in concentration but giving no suggestion that the names meant anything at all to her. But Joel noticed her tapping his business card against her other hand until she tucked it into the pocket of the windbreaker she was wearing. Anxiety level increasing? he wondered.

      “Katrina was the only child of Spiro Kostakis, George’s great-uncle and patriarch of the Kostakis clan in Grosse Pointe. George said that there’d been a granddaughter— Elena—who’d disappeared from the family home when she was only three. Spirited away, apparently,” Joel added, wanting to give some benefit of doubt for Allie’s sake, “by her father, one Eddie Hughes—Katrina’s husband and Elena’s father.”

      At that, Allie’s head turned his way, her expression almost challenging him. “So far I get no connection to me, other than the fact that I coincidentally resemble this woman—what was her name again?”

      “Katrina Kostakis. Or Trina, as she was sometimes called.”

      “Was?”

      “She’s dead. Killed in a car crash twenty-six years ago.”

      “And she is—was—supposed to be…”

      “Your mother,” Joel said softly, keeping his gaze on her face.

      Allie broke eye contact first, turning her gaze toward the water. But not before Joel caught the devastation in her face. He stared bleakly at the water, too, hating himself for what he’d said. What he still had to say.

      “My father’s name was Rob Newman,” she said, her voice low and hoarse. “Rob Newman.”

      Joel sighed. He rose from the bench, strode over to a garbage can and chucked his empty coffee cup into it. She watched him as he leaned over, picked up his pack from the grass and unzipped an outer pocket. He pulled out an envelope and paused, noticing the slight trembling of her chin. But when she tilted her head, defiantly raising her face to his, СКАЧАТЬ