Crimson Eve (33 page)

Brandon was also being questioned by detectives and hounded by the media — reporters wanted anybody and everybody connected to the case. Brandon got them all back
though, Leslie had told Carla with a chuckle. Every reporter who bugged him was hit up to buy a car. Brandon’s business must be booming.

As for Carla, her life had been changed forever. Who knew when she could even act like a regular person again. Right now she couldn’t work. Obviously couldn’t so much as walk out her front door. Forget doing something as normal as grocery shopping, going to Java Joint for coffee. She was no longer Carla Radling, realtor. She would forever be the woman who brought down the nation’s Golden Boy, the shoo-in forty-fourth president of the United States.

Not that she didn’t deserve to see her life ruined — and more.

Carla hit FOX News and stopped flipping channels. Milt Waking — Leslie’s favorite reporter — stood on a sidewalk in Terrin, Washington, the Hanleys’ house behind him. “Of all the people on your doorstep,” Leslie muttered, “why couldn’t he be one of them? I’d have stopped and talked to
him
. Heck, I’d have invited him in for a party.”

Carla tried to smile. “You told me you were going to start going out with Ted Dawson.”

“Yeah.” Leslie rubbed her forehead. “I am. But Milt Waking is
so
hot.”

“Uh-huh. He’s also an obnoxious reporter.”

Besides, it was about time Leslie and Ted did start dating. S-Man had fallen head over heels for her months ago, everybody knew that. Leslie said they’d even set a date to go out to dinner last Friday. Of course, it had to be cancelled in all the chaos.

Leslie laughed. “Yeah, I know. One of
those
.” She pushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “Ted came over last night. First time he had the chance; I’ve been at my parents’ house every other night. Paige was at home too, when Ted came. I thought it might be awkward — I mean, I’ve never seen him outside of
Java Joint. Well, except for last March.” She stared at the floor, as if reliving that horrible time. “Anyway, it was really good. Ted’s so . . . calm. He just sat and talked to us. After awhile Paige went into her bedroom so we could talk alone. Ted just has this way of grounding me. Of making me remember what’s important and what’s not. I realized when he left that I couldn’t think of anyone else who would make me feel that way.” She threw Carla a wry smile. “Who’d a thought, huh.”

“Yeah. Just goes to show you never know.”

They fell silent. Leslie fiddled with her ponytail. Carla reached for a pillow and hugged it to her chest. Thoughts of the hard days ahead crowded her mind.

She and Leslie had been questioned by police and detectives, then grilled some more. Detectives had taken her diary as evidence. All those handwritten pages of grief and pain, her fierce protection of sixteen years — snatched from her fingers, just like that. Carla had wanted no part of the investigation, but of course she had no choice. She would have kept the whole thing quiet. Let Bryson Hanley off completely, even watch him win the presidency. She was willing to never meet her own daughter, never let Rebecca look her in the eye and know Carla Radling was her mother. It would have been best, for Rebecca’s sake. Better by far to protect the young girl’s world, let her keep and cherish the only parents she had ever known.

But that was a fairy tale.

Carla closed her eyes. And this wasn’t over yet. Not by a long shot. So much still to deal with, so many lies to undo. Her own lie, the worst of all.

Milt Waking’s voice pulled at Carla. “. . . Sources close to the case say that Paul Jilke, recovering from the gunshot wound in his side, continues to insist that the late Dr. Hughes, a longtime mentor and confidant of Bryson Hanley, took it upon himself to switch the infant girls. Only later did the d
octor confess to Jilke the terrible deed he had done. Neither Bryson nor Catherine Hanley had any idea what had occurred, Jilke said. Bryson Hanley is not speaking to reporters. A spokesperson for his office asked that the media refrain from seeking him out, as he needs to tend to his wife, who reportedly collapsed under the strain, and is now hospitalized at an undisclosed location . . .”

A sick feeling rolled over Carla. Mother to mother, she could only imagine Catherine Hanley’s shock. To hear about her husband’s affair with the mother of the baby she’d once tried to adopt, and then that the daughter she’d raised wasn’t really her own, but that same, adoptive child. How could the woman ever recover?

And did Catherine Hanley even
want
her husband’s tending? The man who had deceived her in such horrible ways. Who had manipulated her as well as Carla regarding the adoption that almost took place.

Carla plucked the remote off the couch cushion, punched the power button. The television picture clicked to black.

She and Leslie exchanged worn looks.

Carla licked her lips. “He’s going to get away with it, isn’t he.”

Leslie sighed. “Afraid so. Think about it. The doctor died years ago. Now Tanya’s dead. The story she told us — who’s to prove it now? Jilke will just insist it was all a lie to bring down Hanley. He’ll never, ever give his man up. ‘Protect the guy at the top’ — that’s the motto of someone in his position. He’ll take all the heat, including for knowing about the switch. He’s already up for Tanya’s murder, not to mention chasing after us.”

Carla covered her face with both hands.

“At least Hanley lost his career, Carla.” Leslie’s voice was gentle. “And people know everything else he did to you. The detectives have your diary to prove that. Politics was his life.”

People know everything else he did
. Not completely. Not even Leslie knew everything in that diary. The world had heard
the general story, not the details. But they would come out in the trial, every terrible one of them. Carla and Leslie would have to testify against Jilke. Carla would no doubt be on the stand for hours, maybe two days. She would have to answer for all of her choices in the past. She, the main prosecution witness — target of a defense attorney whose job it would be to tear her apart. Not that her choices as a teenager would exculpate Paul Jilke. But any attention on her, the lies she’d told, just might stir enough salacious talk to distract the jury. Isn’t that the way the court system worked?

Justice would not be served, either, for the state trooper who had worked for Tony Derrat. Without Tony to testify, how could Carla prove anything? The trooper had stopped her, run her information, and let her go.

Another heartless person out there, free to cover up his lies. As well as anyone else who had helped Tony look for her.

Carla could only be glad the detectives kept her diary under lock and key, refusing to reveal a word of its contents. She could trust them. They didn’t want to hurt the case they had just begun to build.

And Carla didn’t want to hurt her daughter.

She lifted her fingers from her face. “I know Bryson Hanley lived for politics. But after all he’s done, is that enough to lose? I don’t know. I can’t decide how I feel. Part of me is glad he’ll get away with stealing my baby. Rebecca — Brittany — will never know
how
bad he is. She’ll grow up. One day forgive him for his affairs. She’ll never have to forgive him for taking her from her real mother. She’s free to still love the parents who raised her —both of them.”

“But she wants to meet you.”

“Yeah. Imagine that.”

“And you’ll never tell her.”

Carla’s eyes burned. “She’s lost enough, Leslie.”

The tears Carla had fought for so many years came easily now — too easily. Especially when she thought of Rebecca, pictured the girl in her own room miles away, crying facedown on her bed as Carla used to do. Carla thought she had gone through such trauma as a teenager. But imagine hearing how the father you and the whole country so revered betrayed your mother. Imagine then hearing that the loving, attentive woman who raised you —
isn’t
your real mother.

Carla and Rebecca —
Brittany
, her name was Brittany — had spoken on the phone yesterday for the first time. An awkward call of hesitant words, long pauses, spiraling emotions unsaid and partially yet unknown. Carla had been warned through one of Catherine Hanley’s friends that the call was coming. When the phone rang at the designated time, she’d almost not picked up. Her hand hovered over the receiver, breath muddying her throat.

“Hi. Um, Carla Radling?”

“Yes, Brittany. It’s me.”
Your mother.

“Oh. Hi. I just . . . wanted to introduce myself.”

Carla’s eyes squeezed shut.
Oh, Rebecca, I
know
you already.
And yet I don’t.

“I’m glad you called. But I’m also sorry. So very sorry. This must be so hard on you.”

“It’s a kick in the gut, that’s for sure . . .”

Carla almost smiled. Did she hear herself in her daughter?

That initial call, of course, was not the time to make her own confession. The one that could teeter Brittany’s world over the brink. Time remained for that, but not for long. Despite Jilke’s “confession” that he’d tried to kill two women to protect Bryson Hanley and his family from learning what Dr. Hughes had done, and despite Brittany’s knowledge that the Hanleys’ blended blood types could not create her own, formal testing still needed to take place. Blood would be drawn from
Carla, and Catherine and Bryson Hanley, then DNA tests run. The definite truth would then be proved, once and for all, to a shocked and disbelieving nation.

They were about to be shocked once more.

Carla knew she would travel to meet Brittany Hanley in person before those test results were ready. She had to. For no test, no doctor, not even the inevitably stunned parents who had raised Brittany could be the ones to tell her the unexpected results. The one last, terrible secret of her birth.

Bryson Hanley was not her father.

EIGHTY-FOUR

Tomorrow is the day.

Seventeen years ago on this day I was a week shy of four months pregnant. (Not three months, as I’d led Bryson and Dr. Hughes to believe.) Even then I could have turned back from my lie. Could have told Bryson I
wasn’t
a virgin when we were first together and in fact, had missed my period just a week after our first time at the cabin.

All those entries in my diary when I agonized over what I was doing. Why didn’t I change my mind? To cover myself with lies, deceive Scott in such terrible ways — just because I was afraid to lose Bryson. Looking back, even then I knew he wasn’t worth it. I knew, but I didn’t want to
see
.

Finally, after all these years, the day is almost here. Tomorrow I will meet my daughter for the first time. I wish I could know it will be a wonderful reunion. But, of course, my choices spoiled that long ago. As it is, tomorrow I must tell her the truth. The type-A blood she so desperately sought isn’t me. I’m another common O. The type A belongs to her father, Scott Cambry.

I’m afraid she will hate me. Even though now, when we talk on the phone, she sounds so anxious to see me in person. But how can she not hate me when I tell her t
his? She’s had enough lies. Even though she doesn’t know her father stole her from me, there are still plenty of lies left on his plate. His deceit and affa
ir all those years ago — an affair with someone practically her own age. How sickening for a teenage daughter to imagine! The manipulative way he tried to get his wife to adopt the baby he thought was his own. Yes, she should hate her father. And she does sometimes — when she’s not loving him.

Sounds like someone else I once knew.

My daughter has emotions that will take years to straighten out. I can only pray she will forgive me for the terrible part I’ve played in all this — and let me help.

And yes, I do mean
pray
. Leslie said it well on that most frightening day of my life. “You can stumble around in a dark room or you can turn on the light.” I’m still in that terrifying room. Some days I’d just as soon not get out of bed. But at least I’ve asked God to light my way.

Hey, with my choices, I figure He can only improve things.

Leslie found the “perfect” Bible verse for me. Psalm 18:36. “You [that is, God] broaden the path beneath me, so my ankles do not turn.”

Ha-ha. But I think she’s only half kidding.

I have so much to tell Brittany-Rebecca. I hope one day she’ll listen. Of course, I shouldn’t have to
tell
her at all. She should look at my life and her known father’s life — and see the truth. See the tragedies that selfish choices can wreak, the lives they can hurt. See that we don’t live just for ourselves, but what we do can affect so many people. But like most humans (why did God make us so stub-born?), she won’t see this. Why didn’t I see it in my own mother? Why did I fall into the same mistake she did — and at almost the very same age?

If only I could drill all of this into Brittany-Rebecca’s head. Pour it right in and cover up the hole so it won’t fall out. Ensure she’ll never make a foolish decision.

Don’t want much, do I.

So what can I do but come clean and ask her forgiveness. That may take awhile for her to grant. I’m not sure I’ve even forgiven myself. Although Leslie says I’d better, since God has. But it’s so hard to grasp God’s forgiveness when I think of all the horrible problems my lies have caused. Everything that has happened is my fault.
All
of it. If I hadn’t lied, I could have raised my own daughter. Probably married Scott. Rebecca would never have been stolen from me. Sometimes the sheer weight of these thoughts drives me to my knees.

When I tell her all this, Brittany-Rebecca will ask me about her biological father.
Who
is he? I know a teenager’s curiosity. I will tell her the simple facts. He lives in Central Washington and has built his own construction business. He’s divorced, with two children who live with their mother — a son, nine, and a daughter, six.

What news that will be, to hear she has two half-siblings.

She will ask, “Does he know he’s my father?”

Poor, poor Scott. No one deserves to be as jerked around as he has been. Through the breaking news of Bryson Hanley a month ago, he learned the baby I carried
did
live — but that she wasn’t his. I tried to call him a week after the story broke, but he wouldn’t talk to me. For two weeks I left messages until finally he picked up the phone. Another shock for him — a total about-face. I
hadn’t
lied to him; I’d lied to Bryson. Rebecca
is
his daughter.