Golden Lies - Barbara Freethy [148]
"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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@ Barbara Freethy - February 2011
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Chapter 1
"Pick a card, any card."
Natalie Bishop stared at the playing cards in the old man's hands. "Mr. Jensen, I really need to listen to your heart. You said you were having some chest pain earlier?"
He ignored her question and tipped his head toward the cards. His fingers were long, his hands wrinkled and pale, weathered with age spots. His dark eyes pleaded with her to do as he asked. The emergency room of St. Timothy's Hospital in San Francisco was not the place for card tricks. But Natalie had learned in the past three years of her residency that healing wasn't always about medicine, and patient visits weren't always about being sick. Sometimes they were just about being old and lonely. So she did what he'd asked—she picked a card. It was the ace of spades. The death card. A chill ran through her.
"Don't tell me what it is, Dr. Bishop. Just hold it in your hand." Mr. Jensen closed his eyes and began to mutter something under his breath.
Natalie had a sudden urge to throw the card down on the bed, which was ridiculous. She wasn't superstitious. She didn't believe in card tricks, hocus pocus, or any other kind of magic. She didn't believe in anything that couldn't be scientifically proven. The ace of spades was just a card. If she were playing poker or blackjack, she'd be excited to have it.
Mr. Jensen's eyes flew open and he stared at her as if he'd never seen her before. "The dark ace. Spades."