Heir To Secret Memories. Mallory Kane

she’d found the right place.

      Beads clattered as a dark woman in a yellow turban stepped into the room. “Ah, c’est vous.”

      Paige started. “What?”

      “It is you. From the drawings.”

      Paige studied the thin, brightly dressed woman. Her eyes, enormous and black in her dark face, reflected wisdom and sympathy, along with a hint of amusement. Maybe she would help her.

      Paige held out the framed sketch. “I must find the artist.”

      “Ah, everyone comes to Tante Yvette seeking the mysterious artist.”

      “You mean other people have been asking about him?” Her fingers tightened around the cell phone in her pocket. “Who?”

      “Two men,” the woman spat. “Rough. Stupid.”

      “Did you tell them?”

      The woman laughed and the sound echoed through the little shop like a wind chime. “It is not my place to tell secrets.”

      “I have to find him. Please.” Paige heard the desperation in her voice, the rising panic.

      The turbaned woman shook her head and waved a thin hand. A dozen or more bracelets jangled. “Perhaps he does not wish to be found.”

      Despair clutched at Paige like punishing fingers. “Who is he? You have to tell me. My daughter….” She stopped.

      If you tell anyone…your daughter is so small and fragile.

      The jangling bracelets stilled. “Your daughter?”

      Paige shook her head. “Never mind. I have to find the artist. It’s important.”

      “Many things are important. For this artist, perhaps not being found is important.”

      “Please don’t talk to me in riddles,” Paige begged. “If you won’t help me, just say so. I don’t have much time.” She thought of Katie, of what the kidnappers might be doing to her.

      Tante Yvette stared at her intently. “Time? For what?”

      Paige shook her head, but before she could speak, a noise outside startled her. She clutched the frame closer and didn’t breathe.

      “You are afraid,” the woman said. “Tell Tante Yvette who frightens you.”

      Paige shook her head. “I can’t. They—they’ll know.”

      Tante Yvette looked thoughtful for a moment. “You are the girl in the picture, non?”

      Paige looked down at the carefully drawn eyes, the exquisite perfection of the few lines that formed the shoulders, neck and hair. Then she stared at the signature and the date.

      The answer was unbelievable, but for Katie’s sake she prayed it was true.

      She met Tante Yvette’s gaze. “Yes.”

      The older woman nodded. “Come with me.”

      She led Paige behind the beaded curtain into an apartment that connected to another apartment, then another. As they encountered other people and stepped around furniture, Tante Yvette gestured or spoke in what was probably French. No one said a word to Paige.

      Finally they walked through a crowded storeroom to a heavy door. “Go out this door and turn right. Stay behind the buildings. Go to the hotel and ask the old drunk.”

      “But where are you sending me?”

      “You want to find the artist?”

      Paige nodded, her head pounding with exhaustion.

      “You are the girl in the picture?”

      She nodded again.

      “Then go.”

      Tante Yvette opened the door and Paige stepped out. She turned back. “Please be careful,” she whispered to the woman who was helping her. “They’re dangerous.”

      Tante Yvette nodded. “Go.”

      The alley was shadowed and dark, and held the stench of too many garbage bins. Paige walked quickly, swallowing the nausea that swirled in her empty stomach.

      Any minute the phone would ring and the voice would tell her she’d lost her chance to ever see her daughter again.

      She had no idea if she were doing the right thing. She certainly didn’t know why Tante Yvette had helped her. Or even if she had. She could be walking into a trap.

      But nothing that happened to her could be worse than losing Katie. If there was any chance this alley would lead to Johnny, she had to take it.

      Johnny. She shook her head. It was impossible. Beyond belief. But what if it was true? What if Johnny Yarbrough was still alive?

      Exploring the answer to that question was more than Paige’s battered emotions could take. If this mysterious artist was Johnny, she was about to trade his life for her daughter’s.

      For his daughter’s.

      She couldn’t think about that. All she could think about was Katie.

      Expecting any minute to feel a rough hand grabbing her, or to hear the cell phone ring, Paige continued down the dark, stinking alley.

      Sitting on the front steps of the hotel was an old black man dressed in a dingy shirt and tie, wearing a jacket that left his bony wrists bare.

      Paige walked cautiously up to him, glancing around.

      The old man studied her through rheumy eyes.

      She held out the picture. “Do you know where he is?”

      “You’re the girl,” the old man said.

      She nodded. “Yes. I’m the girl.”

      “So his past has come to meet him.” The old man yawned and pulled a bottle out of his pocket, then took a long swig. “I reckon Jay wouldn’t have put that picture out there ’less he was looking for an answer.”

      “Jay? His name is Jay?” She thought of the monogram with its three initials and the signature on the drawing.

      JAY.

      He nodded and stood, wiping his mouth. “Down at the end of the hall. Don’t you do him bad, you understand?”

      Paige found herself answering reflexively. “No, sir.”

      The old man chuckled and walked away.

      She ran up the steps into a hall lit by dim bulbs that made pale circles of light on the floor. Paige walked down the empty corridor; her sneakers were soundless on the hardwood.

      The last door was room twelve. She shifted the picture to her right hand and wiped her left one on her jeans. Behind this scarred wooden door might be the man who had left her alone, who had broken her heart.

      The one man who could save her daughter.

      She was trembling so much that she could hardly make a fist to knock.

      She lifted her hand.

      JAY WELLCOME JERKED at the sound of the rapping on his door. The charcoal broke in his suddenly tense fingers. Nobody ever knocked on his door except the landlord, and today was not the first of the month.

      He set the sketchbook aside and stood. A glance told him the window opposite the door was unlocked. It had been almost three years since he’d woken up wounded and alone, with no idea of who he was or what had happened to him. And still he remained always aware of everything around him.

      He waited, wondering when whoever had failed to kill him before would try again.

      Satisfied that his escape route through the window and out to his deceptively battered car was clear, he pulled a T-shirt over his head, brushed his hair back with a quick gesture, and stepped over to the door.