Identity Crisis
Eliza Daly,
author of
Under Her Spell
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
Copyright © 2013 by Elizabeth Jane Watson
ISBN 10: 1-4405-5735-7
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5735-4
eISBN 10: 1-4405-5736-5
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5736-1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 123rf.com; istockphoto.com/Eduard Titov
For my mom Judy, for teaching me the qualities of a true heroine, and for encouraging me to always follow my dreams. I love you.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my husband, Mark, and to all my friends and family, for believing in me and supporting my writing in so many ways. I wouldn’t have made it this far without your support. Laura Iding and Mary Biebel, your critiques made this a stronger book. I can’t even begin to thank you. Jill Wood Lawrence and Kate Bowman, for being first readers and having faith in this story. And to Jennifer Lawler and the fabulous team at Crimson Romance.
She couldn’t believe he was dead.
Olivia Doyle gazed discreetly at her six fellow mourners dotting the wooden pews of St. Mary’s church in San Francisco. An aching, hollow feeling consumed her.
The pipe organ rising majestically from the rear balcony sang out, its solemn tone embracing a whisper of underlying hope, as if reassuring her she’d be fine. A wave of music swept through the church, ricocheting off the stained glass windows and massive stone walls, filling the vacant pews and the emptiness inside her. It wrapped around her dad’s urn resting within the sanctuary at the front, then seemed to float up to the gold leaf dome and beyond to the heavens, carrying her dad’s spirit with it.
A sob erupted from a plump, elderly woman sheathed in black, seated in the pew behind Olivia. Olivia vaguely recognized her from Mass. Had she known Olivia’s dad? Olivia and her dad had attended Mass here regularly while she was growing up, even though they’d always lived outside the city. However, she hadn’t personally known even
one
of the thousand or so parishioners.
Olivia slid a fleeting glance over her shoulder as the woman buried her face in a white embroidered handkerchief. Olivia massaged a dry tissue between her fingers, honoring her dad’s memory. He wouldn’t have wanted her to cry. Not once in twenty-nine years could she recall having seen him shed a tear. He’d have expected her to be strong.
The five men seated across the aisle stood, and Olivia followed their lead, realizing the service had ended. Her dad’s broker and business associates filed over to her and offered their condolences, shaking her hand, giving her an encouraging pat on the shoulder. They walked off.
The woman behind her braced a black gloved hand on the back of Olivia’s pew and pulled herself up with labored effort, causing the wood to creak. She stepped from the pew, raising her gaze from the rosary clutched in her hand, her puffy brown eyes meeting Olivia’s. Without a hint of warning, she threw her arms around Olivia, enfolding her in a warm embrace, sobbing. Olivia merely stood there, unsure how to respond to the woman’s outpouring of emotions, or to the first hug she’d received since learning of her dad’s death two days earlier.
Olivia swallowed hard, a tear slipping down her cheek.
The woman’s arms slowly relaxed, and she drew back. A reverent expression on her doughy face, she made the sign of the cross, speaking in what sounded like Italian or possibly Latin, the words incomprehensible, yet as soothing and comforting as the woman’s embrace. Her gaze once again fixed on her rosary, she turned and shuffled down the red carpeted aisle toward the back of the church. Olivia wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing her hands over her bare arms beneath the black shawl.
Everything would be all right.
Father Clifford approached. A tall, thin man in his early seventies, his hair was as white as his crisply pressed vestment. He enveloped her hand in his, sympathy softening his angular features. “How are you, my dear?”
She forced a faint smile. “I’m okay.”
“We miss you around here.”
She nodded, slipping her hand from his grasp, unable to meet his gaze. She hadn’t attended church in six months, since last Christmas. She’d spent Easter in London on business. She should have celebrated it here with her dad.
“Come around anytime you need to talk.”
“I’ll be all right, thanks. And thanks for putting together such a lovely service. It was exactly what my dad would have wanted.” She glanced at the pew behind her. “Do you know who that woman was?”
He wore an amused smile, nodding. “Rosalina Powell. Funerals seem to be a hobby of hers. Hasn’t missed one since her husband passed away several years ago.”
A funeral crasher. Figured. Olivia couldn’t imagine her dad befriending such an openly compassionate woman.
Father Clifford slipped a yellowed envelope from the side pocket of his vestment. “Your father gave this to me many years ago. Asked that I give it to you upon his death.”
She took the envelope from his hand. The organ music faded and a desolate, eerie stillness fell over the church, raising the hairs on the back of her neck. She tightened the shawl around her shoulders. She opened the envelope to find a letter and a newspaper clipping. She started with the letter.
Dear Livvy,
First, know that I loved you more than anything in this world. That’s why I hope someday you’ll forgive me for what I’ve done. Telling you the truth while I was alive could have put your life in danger. Now that I’m gone, I no longer fear for your safety. They would only have hurt you to get to me.
The only way to keep us safe was to enter the Witness Protection Program when you were five. Leaving our friends and family was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I can’t stand the thought of you now being alone. I hope you’ll go back to our family, in the town where I grew up, Five Lakes, Wisconsin. I’d like to be laid to rest there, next to your mother. Please forgive me enough to grant me this one last wish. If you should ever encounter any problems, contact Roy Howard, the U.S. Marshal who relocated us, at 415-334-9076. I’m so sorry. Please believe you were the most important thing to me. You were my life. My Livvy.
Love, Dad
Olivia stood paralyzed, her mind racing, trying to comprehend the letter. Was this some kind of sick joke? For the past twenty-four years her dad had lived in fear that somebody would hurt them? What had forced him to leave behind everyone he’d loved? Everyone
she’d
probably loved, but obviously couldn’t remember. And if her mom wasn’t buried in San Francisco, whose grave had Olivia been visiting here all these years? She tried to hold the letter steady in her trembling hands. Of course it was vague. Her dad had been a man of few words. However, these few words expressed a lot of emotion, something he’d never been good at doing.
“Is everything all right?” Father Clifford’s voice penetrated her thoughts.
Concern creased the older man’s brow and from the curiosity filling his gray eyes, he had no clue what the envelope contained. Her dad hadn’t even trusted a priest with his secret. Her dad had been the only person she’d ever really trusted, and it turned out she hadn’t truly known him.
She merely nodded, unable to find her voice. She inhaled a deep breath. The scent of beeswax candles and incense did little to calm the panic racing through her veins. She unfolded a clipping from a Chicago newspaper, dated twenty-four years ago. The headline read
Art Dealer in Bed with Mob Blows Whistle on Forgery Ring and Vinnie Carlucci
. The article included a photo of police officers escorting her dad. She started reading the article.
Prominent Chicago art dealer Andrew Donovan confesses to having sold more than a hundred forgeries
…
Her stomach dropped. She slapped a hand over her mouth, certain she was about to vomit right there on the pew.
Her dad had been a criminal.
The nature of his crime made it all the more surreal.
She stared in disbelief at the papers in her hand. His name had been Andrew Donovan, not Alex Doyle. Her last name was
Donovan
. Was her first name actually Olivia? Instead of inheriting a family fortune, she’d inherited a new identity.
Or rather, an old one.
Olivia sat outside St. Mary’s in her Porsche Cayenne SUV, her eyes watering, her throat feeling like it was closing up, making it difficult to breath. Her gaze darted from the newspaper article clutched in her hand to the clear blue sky, as if searching for her dad’s spirit, along with some answers.
What the hell, Dad? Why didn’t you give me answers while you were still alive? It might have been for my safety twenty-four years ago, but we had to have been out of danger by now. Weren’t we?
Apparently the one person who could answer some of the questions bombarding her mind was Roy Howard. She slipped her dad’s letter from the envelope and her cell phone from her purse. Inhaling a calming breath, she punched in the number. With each ring, apprehension clenched her stomach tighter. After what seemed like forever, voicemail picked up.
“You’ve reached 415-33 — ”
Panicked, she disconnected, unsure what to say. He might not even recall the case after all these years. If he didn’t, would her dad’s file provide the answers she really needed about her past and her family? Maybe the Witness Protection Program was too covert to even maintain case files.
Her phone rang in her hand and she jumped.
Private Caller
. It could be Roy Howard calling back. She needed to get her head straight before talking to him. Maybe her dad’s house held some answers.
• • •
A half hour later, Olivia walked up the driveway of her dad’s home in Sausalito. A young woman tending a flower bed in a front lawn gave Olivia a curious stare, and an elderly man mowing his lawn next door gave her a faint wave, and she waved back. She’d seen him before but didn’t know his name. Doubt if her dad had either, which was precisely why these people were enjoying the sunshine and fresh air rather than attending his funeral. A real estate agent, her dad was always finding a deal on a house, so they’d moved every two years while she was growing up. They’d never really gotten to know their neighbors anywhere.
She unlocked the two deadbolts on the front door and walked inside, shutting the door behind her. She came to an abrupt halt in the foyer, staring in confusion at the contents of the antique cabinet drawers dumped on the hardwood floor. Her gaze darted into the living room. The back of the cream-colored sofa had been slashed, the material torn away. Stuffing from the cushions and pillows blanketed the gray carpet.
Paintings, which once hung on the seafoam colored walls, were scattered on the floor. Removed from their frames, each had a corner of the canvas sliced and torn away from the stretcher, as if someone had been searching for something behind it. The value of a Delgado — a portrait of a crazed looking woman — had literally just been slashed from double its market value to half, if that.
