She looked up and gave him a polite smile, then shook his hand over her desk without getting up from her chair. It seemed like she was purposefully establishing who really ran the show. I needed to keep that in mind as we talked to her.
I walked closer to Marco but stopped partway into the room, about ten feet behind him and to the side.
“Deputy Roland,” Tiffany said in a congenial tone that reminded me of the one my mother had used when she was unhappy with someone but felt obligated to be polite “I confess I’m curious as to why an Eastern Tennessee deputy is here about a Texas case.”
“I’ll be happy to clear that up.” He glanced back at me. “This is . . .” His voice trailed off as he met my gaze and held it, letting me decide which name to give her.
She took me in, and then her mouth dropped open. “You look just like . . .”
“Mary Caroline Henderson,” I said. “But I knew her as Mary Blakely.”
She got to her feet and pressed her hands to her chest.
“Caroline?” she asked in a gasp that made it obvious she never opened that email.
I nodded, and she rushed around the desk, hurrying toward me. She started to cry as she engulfed me in a tight hug.
“I thought you were dead.”
“Alive and well,” I said, surprised that I felt nothing. No happiness. No sorrow. Nothing. My past and my present were colliding, and every emotion in me had bled out. What was wrong with me?
“Where have you been?” She released me and turned to look at Marco. “Is she in trouble? Is that why you’re here? Why didn’t you tell me this was about Caroline?” The last sentence was an accusation.
Marco glanced from me to Tiffany. “We decided it was best to use discretion.”
“I sent you an email,” I said lamely.
She shook her head. “I never got it.”
“I only sent it yesterday,” I said. “I used the email address on your website.”
She looked horrified. “I have someone who screens my email. I’ll talk to her immediately.”
“Honestly, I figured it was a long shot to reach you that way. Marco decided we should take a more direct approach.”
She turned her attention to Marco, giving him a closer perusal. “And you’re from Eastern Tennessee?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, clasping his hands together in front of him.
She turned back to me. “Caroline, how did you end up in Tennessee? Your father is worried sick. Why haven’t you reached out to him?” Her eyes flew wide. “Were you kidnapped? Were you just rescued?”
I stared at Marco, hoping he’d take the lead like he’d said, since I had no idea what to say.
“Ms. Olson,” he said, giving me a worried look. “Why don’t we all sit down? I have a few questions I’d like to ask you.”
“Questions for me?” she asked in surprise. “I don’t understand.” Her face shuttered. “Should I contact my attorney?”
Her attorney?
“You are well within your rights to ask your attorney to be present,” Marco said patiently. “But I assure you, we don’t suspect you of any wrongdoin’. We were just hopin’ to ask you some questions about Ms. Blakely’s mother.”
Her eyes widened in shock, likely from the topic he wanted to discuss, but a sense of unease ran through me at hearing him call me Ms. Blakely. Other than a handful of instances, I hadn’t been called that name in over a year. It felt wrong coming from Marco’s mouth.
“Yes, of course,” she said, looking flustered. “Where are my manners? You must be tired from your drive. How long was it?” Resorting to Southern hospitality, she ushered us to a sitting area to the left of her desk.
“Uh . . . four hours,” I said, trying to keep my wits about me.
Why did this woman have me practically shaking in my shoes? One thing was certain, if I couldn’t handle talking to Tiffany—a neutral party—I wasn’t even close to being ready to take on my father. The realization was followed by disappointment and then, to my shock, relief.
Did I not want to face my father? Was that why I was miring myself in Drum business?
But I didn’t have time to consider it, because Marco was ushering me to the white leather sofa. He sat next to me, leaving a good six inches between us to look professional. Tiffany sat in an armchair that had a high back and reminded me of a throne. It was obviously her usual chair.
Marco pulled out his phone. “Do you mind if I record this conversation?” When she hesitated, he said, “Again, you are not suspected of any wrongdoing. Just something I can refer back to later if need be.”
She hesitated, then nodded.
“Of course. I have nothing to hide,” she added with a forced smile. “Other than the recipes for my moisturizers and face creams.” She patted her cheek.
“You look remarkably young, Ms. Olson,” Marco said as he set up his recording app and turned his phone facedown on the table. “I thought you must have been your daughter.”
A bemused look covered her face, but it looked dulled from overuse. She obviously heard some version of that compliment several times a day. I’m sure her wrinkle-free and toned face helped sell those lotions and creams, although I suspected it was more likely a product of genetics and Botox.
“I was never blessed with children,” she said. “But thank you for your compliment.”
She was now staring at me in blatant fascination. When she realized what she was doing, she offered an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. It’s just that you look exactly like your mother.”
I gave her a tight smile in return. “So I’ve been told.”
Taking a deep, cleansing breath, she seemed to regain control, narrowing her eyes and saying in a stern, motherly tone, “Caroline, where have you been?”
I hesitated, unsure how much to tell her. “Eastern Tennessee.”
“Why haven’t you contacted your father? He’s worried sick. He’s contacted me, you know. Sounds like he’s doing everything he can to find you.”
I jerked my gaze to Marco. Why hadn’t I considered that he’d contact her? Now I realized why Marco hadn’t mentioned my name when he’d made the appointment. She likely would have called him.
“How long ago did he contact you?” Marco asked in a casual tone.
“I don’t know,” she said absently, with an unfocused gaze. “A month or so after the wedding? Well, when the wedding was supposed to take place. I think it was last September.”
“When he contacted you, how did he sound?”
“Worried half to death, of course,” she said in disgust. “How else would he sound? She disappeared the night before her wedding. We didn’t find out until about ten minutes after the ceremony was supposed to start.”
“You were at the wedding?” I asked in shock. More to the point, why hadn’t they called off the wedding? While I’d done plenty of internet searches using my name, Jake’s, and my father’s, I’d never come across anything indicating they’d let things go that far before cancelling the ceremony.
Except . . . they didn’t know why I’d run. Maybe in the beginning they’d fooled themselves into thinking I really did have cold feet.