Jo slept longer that she thought she would, a combination of her very early morning talk with Spencer and sheer exhaustion . . . not to mention the safe, warm comfort of the large man sleeping against her back, one long arm keeping her close. For the first time in a long time, she had to force herself to get up and get moving.
But when she let herself into the suite, she was still only the second person to arrive.
"Want some cereal?" asked Parker, who was sitting cross-legged on the ottoman, eating out of a coffee mug.
"Sure," said Jo, taking the offer as a good sign. "What kind?"
"Hardison bought Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Lucky Charms, and milk. There are some fortune cookies left over from last night, too. I like Dougie."
It was easier to switch mental gears with Parker if Jo kept herself in neutral. "Good." Jo filled a mug with Cinnamon Toast Crunch. She sat on the couch in what had become her spot, tossed a couple of squares in her mouth, and looked up to see Parker staring at her. "What? I like dry cereal."
Parker waved that away. "Aren't you going to ask me what I decided?"
"You've made a decision already?" Jo figured that last night's paperclip incident was a big clue, but she told herself not to jump the gun—not with Parker.
"I made one. He isn't staying with those people. He'll end up . . . blowing up that house or something. And that's a pretty big job for just one kid." She frowned. "But I don't know the best place for him, yet."
"Take your time," said Jo, ignoring the urge to state her case. "This is important."
"I know. I think I need to talk to Dougie again."
"Good idea. If you don't want me to listen in," she added, hoping Parker wouldn't care, "let me know and I'll take a walk or something."
Parker nodded. "Tonight."
"Okay." Damn.
A sleepy-eyed Hardison wandered in scratching his stomach under his tee-shirt. "Hey," he said. "Anyone else up?"
On cue, Nate emerged from his room, bright-eyed and clean shaven, and a casually elegant Sophie made her entrance from the hallway, coffee in hand. Their eyes met, and Jo thought she saw an actual electrical charge pass between them before they slid their masks into place and exchanged pleasant good mornings. But for that split second, it seemed impossible that friendship was all they shared.
When she'd asked, Spencer had said—with a longsuffering grimace—that Sophie and Nate already belonged to each other, but were too busy dancing around to figure it out. After watching them for the last few days, Jo had to agree. Even if their hotel rooms had connected, each would be waiting for the other to open the door.
Nate clapped his hands together. "What did you find for us, Parker?"
"Everything—just where Dougie said they were." Parker tossed Hardison a palm-sized camera and opened the mini-fridge.
He plugged in the camera and accepted the bottle of Jones orange soda she handed him. "Thanks." He twisted the cap off and took a couple of swallows while he played the keyboard with the other hand. "Okay—" he said. "A birth record for Douglas Franklin Marten the Third, a.k.a. Dougie . . . the Last Will and Testament of one Franklin Douglas Marten . . . and what looks like a whole lot of miscellaneous documents. It's gonna take some time to read through all this." He frowned. "Hey—who's been messing with the comms?"
"Sorry," said Jo. "I needed to talk to Spencer and I didn't want to wake you up."
"Well . . . I do appreciate that, but next time, leave me a sticky note or something." He shot her a smile.
"Anything we should know about?" asked Sophie.
"Spencer thought so." Jo looked at Nate. "It's about Doug and Reid." She explained her points without interruption, though everyone exchanged glances when she reached the part about Doug intending to murder her.
"Huh," said Nate, when she was finished. "You're right. It doesn't make sense."
"Speaking of oddities," said Hardison. "There's a copy of a Termination of Parental Rights in here. Signed by Elizabeth Samuels. Isn't that . . . yeah, that's Dougie's mother. Uh," he glanced at Jo, "his birth mother, I mean."
"What?" Jo got up and stared at the screen. "I thought she was dead." And it wouldn't have surprised her much if Doug had killed his first wife and his parents had helped hide the body. "When did they divorce?"
"Uh . . . they didn't. Wait a minute . . . no marriage either."
"So they didn't get married in Pennsylvania," said Nate. "There are forty-nine other states."
Hardison shook his head as data streamed across his screen. "And they didn't get married in any of 'em—not to each other. She did marry a few years after Dougie was born . . . the record says that was her first. Don't know why she'd lie."
"Okay . . ." said Nate, with a faraway look. "I think we need to hear Mrs. . . ?"
"Thompson," said Hardison, without looking around.
"Mrs. Thompson's version of events. What is DCF called here?"
"Child Welfare Services," said Jo, before Hardison could.
Nate nodded. "Sophie?"
"Right. Parker?"
"Sorry. Way too tired." She yawned and stretched, the spoon rattling in her empty mug. "Take Jo."
"Oh. Um, all right. Jo? Care to come along?"
No. Absolutely not. Not for any reason whatsoever. Jo opened her mouth to repeat this out loud . . . and saw Parker watching her. No, not watching—studying.
"Okay," she said, knowing she'd been manipulated, but not sure why.
"The Thompsons live in Allentown," Hardison reported. "She's an elementary school teacher . . . school gets out at three-thirty, should be home by four."
Jo wondered what kind of a school teacher would leave a baby in Doug Marten's care. Of course, to be fair, she'd left the same child in the care of Doug Marten's parents . . . but Jo didn't feel like being fair.
"Mr. Thompson has a nine-to-five job and a forty minutes commute—that gives you a nice window to catch her alone with her kids."
"She has kids?" asked Jo.
"Yeah. Two boys . . . or I guess . . ." he trailed off.
"Jo." Nate's expression was serious. "He'll always be yours, and you'll always be his. No matter what. Remember that."
She hoped he was right.
"Let's go," said Sophie.
"Now?" She wasn't ready. "Allentown's only an hour away—she won't be home for seven hours." Which probably wasn't going to be enough time for Jo to prepare.
"But the Tanger Outlet Center is two hours away," said Sophie, a gleam in her eye. "We are going shopping."
OOOOOoooooOOOOO
After several hours spent exploring almost every store, Jo began to suspect that Parker had no other motive for pushing her into this trip than to avoid power—shopping with Sophie. The woman was relentless.
"This isn't me," said Jo, looking in the mirror. The new jeans in a darker shade, yes. The tee-shirt a few shades darker than her eyes, okay. The close-fitting brown suede jacket . . . not so much. She tugged at the front, trying to give herself an inch more room. "This really isn't me."
"That's the point." Sophie pulled Jo's arms down to check the length of the sleeves. "You're creating a persona here—one that might want to live in sweatpants but doesn't actually have the opportunity to do so. There—perfect. Take it off, please."
Jo slid off the jacket and handed it to Sophie. "Lunch now?"
"Makeup and hair."
"I don't wear makeup." She had once, but it had been years since she'd used it as a way to call attention to herself instead of a way to cover up the black eyes and hopelessness.
"I know you don't wear makeup, but a social worker would—it's part of her armor. She gets up every morning facing a long day of allegations and investigations and horrors and very little hope." Sophie's accent flattened out. "We need something between us and our never-ending case files, something that reminds me that I'm more than just a hamster on a wheel, that I'm as real as the people I try to help every single day—even if it's only taupe eyeshadow and tinted lip balm . . ." She sighed, and for a moment, she looked like someone else . . . someone else who looked like Sophie . . .
And then she smiled. "So, makeup."
Jo blinked at her. "Okay," she said. "Lead the way." She followed Sophie to the counter and watched her sign the twentieth credit slip of the day. Jo had tried to protest the first time, but had been overridden. This shopping trip was for a job. And jobs had special revenue sources—the details of which were not important.
What was important was that the team didn't stint when it came to necessities for a job, whether it was electronics for Hardison, harnesses for Parker, bandages for Eliot, or aspirin for Nate. Or the perfect outfit—right down to the unmentionables.
Jo had stood corrected—in fact, she'd been on her feet the entire time. It was almost a relief to sit in the chair at the Cosmetics Company and let the saleswoman dab things on her face with soft sponges, under Sophie's watchful eye. She closed her eyes and let them consult with each other.
"Are you asleep?" asked Sophie.
"Mmm-hmm."
"Well wake up." She dropped a bag full of cosmetics in Jo's lap. "We have an appointment at a spa down the road. A haircut for you and a pedi for me."
"Is the haircut for my persona?"
"No, the haircut's for you—my treat." Sophie led the way back to the car, and added the recent purchases to the already brimming trunk. "Eliot may be able to pull off that effortless windblown look with nothing more than a bottle of baby shampoo, but the rest of us need a little more help." She slammed the trunk and got into the passenger side—it had been decided that Jo needed to get used to driving again.
"He conditions, too," said Jo, without thinking. "Twice a week."
"That's right—you stayed with him for a while." Sophie fastened her seatbelt.
"Only while I was recuperating." Jo started the car and backed carefully out of the space.
"How did Ron feel about that? Go left."
"Ron never had anything to worry about— we aren't and never will be a romantic triangle. Would Nate worry if you slept on Spencer's couch?"
"Well . . . I'm not entirely sure about that," Sophie looked out the window. "And I'm not sure what it would mean if it did," she added, so quietly Jo barely heard her.
"Come on. When two people look at each other like you do . . ."
"But who are we looking at?" Sophie looked down at her hands. "I've been so many different people I'm not even sure which one I started out with . . . and he's still trying to come to terms with who he might become. . ." She shook her head. "Sorry . . . I didn't mean to dump on you. But Eliot and Hardison don't understand, and Parker's impossible . . ."
"I don't mind. But does it have to be so complicated? Maybe it's enough to find someone who accepts all of you. The good and the bad."
"Easy for you to say—you know who you are. And so does Ron."
"I didn't at first—I had to remember." Jo hesitated. "I had to stop hiding."
"Yeah . . ." Sophie grimaced. "I suppose that's really the only—oh! Turn here!"
Jo wrenched the wheel, sending the car bouncing into the parking lot of the spa.
And the moment was gone.
OOOOOoooooOOOOO
The Thompsons lived in a pretty neighborhood, full of the sounds of children playing, laughing, and crunching through the colored leaves that were starting to fall in earnest.
"That one," said Sophie, pointing to a nice brick two-story with a large yard. "Are you ready?"
"I think so," lied Jo, taking the keys out of the ignition and stuffing them into the pocket of her new jacket. Sophie sighed, pulled them out, handed Jo her new canvas tote, and passed back the key ring. Jo meekly slipped it into the inside pocket of the bag and got out of the car. They both turned on their earbuds, and Sophie adjusted her brooch, another elegant piece of Hardison's handcrafted surveillance equipment.
On the walk up to the porch, Jo saw Sophie's walk alter, her spine stiffen, her shoulders droop, and by the time she pressed the doorbell, she'd gone from sophisticated to overworked and underpaid. Even her outfit—the sale price of which had made Jo choke—now somehow suggested style on a limited budget.
A woman opened the door, leaving the screen in place. She was petite, with hair that couldn't decide whether to be blonde or brown. Jo's fingernails cut into her palms. The resemblance was undeniable—this was Dougie's mother . . . Not real, she reminded herself, birth. There was a difference—there was.
"Elizabeth Thompson?" said Sophie, her accent pure Philadelphia, "I'm Samantha Parkington from Child Welfare Services, and this is Emily Bennett. We have some questions we'd like to ask you."
Mrs. Thompson stiffened. "About my children?" she asked, her expression half worry, half warning.
Jo liked that, despite herself.
"Oh, no, your children aren't in any danger—and we aren't here for an assessment," said Sophie, with a reassuring smile. "Actually, we'd like to talk to you about Douglas Marten."
"I'm sorry, but I don't have a student named . . . " Her grey eyes widened. "Oh! Doug . . . from college?"
"You do know him?"
"I did—we haven't spoken since . . . well, for a very long time. Is this about—" She stopped, then shook her head. "Is this about the adoption?"
Jo jaw dropped, but Sophie shot her a look through Samantha's façade and she managed to close it before Mrs. Thompson noticed.
"Mr. Marten left behind some personal papers," said Sophie. "And they led to you—"
"I'm sorry—left behind?"
"Mr. Marten died in a car crash a few years ago. You didn't know?"
"No! That's terrible . . . but . . . I'm afraid I still don't understand why you're here."
"Well, the Martens are understandably upset. Doug was their only child, and when they found out about the baby. . . well . . . they've challenged the legality of the adoption. But we wouldn't think of disturbing the child or his adoptive family without cause." Sophie gave her a sympathetic look. "We know this might be difficult for you to talk about, but we're hoping you might be able to help us straighten things out without resorting to legal action on either side."
Mrs. Thompson opened the door. "You'd better come in."
She led them to the living room and invited them to sit. Sophie declined the offer of something to drink, but Jo asked for some water—her mouth was dry and she needed something to keep her hands still. She looked around, at the piles of books and the scattered toys—so unlike the sterile perfection of the Marten mansion.
Dougie might have grown up here, if things had been different . . . but maybe things were different now . . . Jo felt dizzy. Was Parker watching?
"I thought the birth record was sealed,' said Elizabeth Thompson, handing Jo a glass and perching on the edge of a comfortable-looking chair that had a crocheted afghan tossed over the back.
"Yeah," said Hardison. "You'd think so . . ."
"There was a court order," said Sophie. "The Martens have some influence. And money."
"Doug mentioned that once or twice," she said. "You know . . . he wasn't the nicest person, especially when he was drinking. But he was my guardian angel when I found out I was pregnant. It wasn't an easy time for me—I was working full time, taking classes . . . "
"Penn State?" asked Jo, not knowing why, except the campus seemed to have been Doug's personal hunting ground.
She nodded. "I was sick as a dog for most of my pregnancy—I lost my job. Doug helped me out with the rent, groceries. . . and helped me make the decision to give up the baby for adoption. He arranged the whole thing for me, brought me the paperwork and everything. He was there for the birth—well, not there, but in the hospital waiting room—and he even took the baby to the adoption agent, so I wouldn't have to, you know, actually hand him over . . ."
Jo blinked at her tone. It sounded as if she'd . . . cared.
"You never saw the agent?" asked Sophie, making a note.
"No. Doug was really sweet to do that for me. I'll always remember him for it."
"So will we," said Nate.
"But you did sign away your parental rights?" asked Jo, keeping her disappointment out of her voice with an effort. She'd hoped Doug had forged the signature.
The other woman nodded. "It wasn't an easy decision, but I was a different person then . . . I couldn't have raised a child, even if I'd had a husband. Doug offered, but I told him putting his name on the certificate was a big enough favor—I didn't have to track down my ex-boyfriend and get him to sign away his—"
"Your . . . your ex—boyfriend?" interrupted Sophie.
Mrs. Thompson's eyes widened and she brought a hand to her mouth. "Oh, no—is that the problem?"
Nate said a bad word in Jo's ear. She bit down on one of her own.
"I—I got nothing." said Hardison. "I'm . . . I'm speechless."
Sophie cleared her throat. "So . . . so Doug Marten isn't the father?"
Elizabeth Thompson blushed. "I . . . I don't know for sure," she said. "Like I said, I was a different person back then. But even a small chance is still a chance . . ."
"I see . . .What was your ex-boyfriend's name?"
"Jeffrey Carleton. I don't know where he is—he disappeared around the time I found out I was pregnant. I, uh . . . I think he found out about Doug."
"I'll bet he did," said Nate. "That clever son of a—"
"Thank you, Mrs. Thompson. We appreciate your time."
Two kids came running into the room, playing a very loud game of tag.
"Indoor voices, please!" said Elizabeth Thompson, with loving exasperation. "We'd like to hear ourselves think."
Jo didn't. She glanced at the children and caught her breath. The younger one looked almost exactly like Dougie. "Are these both yours?"
"Yes. This is Max and that's Aiden," she said.
"Such handsome young men," Sophie reached out to tousle the older boy's hair. He ducked away and rubbed his head. "Sorry—I couldn't resist."
Mrs. Thompson smiled. "Max, take your brother upstairs, please. Please. Thank you." She smiled as they chased each other away and then turned back to Sophie. "Will I have to testify or sign something? You know . . . I wouldn't want to take . . . him . . . from the only home he's known—or from the people who love him. . ."
"You may have to sign an affidavit, but I'm sure we can keep it discreet, if that's what you'd prefer."
Mrs. Thompson shook her head. "My husband knows already—we met in AA, and he's heard all my secrets. I haven't told the boys that they have a . . . a big brother out there, somewhere, but I always thought maybe we might all meet someday, if he ever wanted to find me." She fiddled with her wedding ring. "Please . . . maybe I don't deserve to know, but . . . is he safe? Happy?"
Sophie hesitated, and it was Jo who broke the silence. "Would you like to see a picture?"
"Jo . . ." said Nate.
Sophie frowned. "Emily, I don't think—"
"Just this once, Sam," said Jo, ignoring Sophie's raised eyebrows. She reached into her bag and pulled out a printout that Hardison had made from Spencer's camera feed—it showed Dougie in his sweatshirt and boots, holding a sponge. He wasn't smiling, but there was a hint of mischief in his expression.
Elizabeth Thompson took it. "Oh!" she said, putting her hand to her mouth again. "Oh, he looks just like Aiden!" She looked at the image for a full minute, before giving it back. "I've always wondered . . . sorry," she said, wiping a careless thumb under her eyes. "Whatever information you need, please just ask—I want to help."
"I can't imagine what else there could be," said Nate. "Secret twins? The lost heir of Scotland?"
"We appreciate that," said Sophie, standing. "But I think we have all we need for now."
Elizabeth shook hands with Sophie, then turned to Jo and clasped her fingers. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you for letting me see him."
Jo nodded and squeezed her hand.
She walked to the car, digging out the keys. She looked at them and handed them to Sophie, who took them without comment.
It was some time and distance before Jo spoke. "Did we get enough?" she asked.
"A bit more than expected, I think. Are you all right?"
"I don't know yet." She closed her eyes, and didn't open them again until they arrived at the hotel.
Please note: I'm not fudging Pennsylvania custody law—Doug the Second is.