TRACE (The TRACE Series, #1) (9 page)

I almost sob aloud not just for the loss that I feel but also for the realization that I have a sister. I stare at her face, seeing my own blue eyes reflected back in hers. "What's your name?"

"My name?" Her hand moves to her chin. "Who are you?"

"I'm Vanessa," I say because it's the only name I've ever carried. It's who I am regardless of where my life began.

I watch her lips quiver as her head darts behind her quickly. "My name is Connie."

"Connie," I repeat holding my hand out towards her. "I'm really happy to meet you."

Her eyes lower slowly and before her hand can touch mine she stumbles back on her feet. "No. It can't be. You can't be."

I look down to where her eyes are focused and I see my open hand with the small rope bracelet resting in my palm.

"You're not her." Her finger waves in the air at me. "You can't be her. What kind of sick game do you think you're playing?"

I reach behind me looking for any leverage I can find. "I don't know who I am."

"What's that supposed to mean?" She points at me with the precision of a dagger. "Why are you here? You tell me why you're here."

I glance back at the door, wondering if I should pull it open and run down the steps to the car. I can leave now. I can take the promise of what could have been and keep that close to me.

"Tell me why you're here." Her tone is insistent. "I need to know why you came here now."

"I wanted to talk to her." I look down at the bracelet. "I just wanted to talk to her."

"You waited until she was dead." She tucks her face into her hands. "You actually waited until she was dead before you came here."

"No," I say quietly. "I came to talk to her."

"Do you know that she never stopped looking for you?" She pushes her hands onto her hips. "She searched for you everywhere. She died crying because she never got to hold you again."

The gravity of the words hits me full force and I pull my hands to my stomach. "I would have come sooner. I didn't know."

"You waited until she was dead to get your hands on her money." She pushes against my shoulder. "That's why you're here, isn't it? You think you're entitled to our things?"

I brush my hand over my cheek, pushing aside all the tears. "I don’t want anything. I just wanted to see her."

"You won't get away with this." She raises her hands in the air. "I won't let you get away with this."

I reach behind me to grab hold of the doorknob, wanting the reprieve that the world outside these walls will give me. I shouldn't have come. I should have read all the news stories that popped up in the search results instead of just gazing at the pictures of her face. I would have known she had died. I would have known that my birth mother was gone.

"I need to go." I fumble with the doorknob, "I can't stay here."

"You're not going anywhere." She yanks hard on my hand. "You're not leaving until we settle this."

"There's nothing to settle." I hold tight to the bracelet. "I shouldn't have come."

"You're right." She stares down at my hand. "You never should have come here. You don’t belong here anymore. You're too late."

She's right. I am too late. I'm too late to hear my mother's voice and I'm too late to see any love that she may have had for me in her eyes. I'm too late to hold her hand when I tell her that I missed her every day and would have fought my way back to her if I'd have known. I'm too late for it all.

"My husband will make sure you don't get your hands on any of our things." She waves her hand down the hallway. "He won't let you near our family."

"I don't want your things," I sob. "I just wanted to see her."

"Darling," she calls into the quiet apartment. "You won't believe who finally decided to show her face after all these years."

I listen to the spite in her words. I stare at the eyes that look like mine and I see nothing but an angry, bitter stranger looking back at me.

"What's going on?" A man's voice calls from the hallway.

"Charlotte finally decided to come home." She waves her hand over my head.

"What?" His voice is husky as his footsteps near. "Charlotte is here?"

"She's right here." She steps to the left and I look towards the voice.

He stops in his tracks.

I stare into his face.

It's him.

Garrett Ryan is standing next to my sister.

T
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T
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eborah Bladon has never read a romance hero she didn't like. Her love for romance novels began when she was old enough to board the bus, library card in hand to check out the newest Harlequin paperbacks. She's a Canadian by heart, and by passport, but you can often spot her in New York City sipping a latte and looking for inspiration for her next story. Manhattan is definitely her second home.

She cherishes her family and believes that each day is a gift for writing, for reading, and for loving.