He hands me the paper, and as he starts to do something on his phone, I glance down. There’s a phone number scribbled at the top—the dead one, presumably. But other than that, it’s just a completed puzzle. Except, I realize, it’s not.
Words fill the boxes, but don’t seem to match the clues. I skim them, trying to figure out what got Ryan so juiced. Maybe a clue in the letters?
And then I see it, too. Most of the boxes are full of random words, but two answers are names. Martin in six-down. And Meeks in twenty-one across.
“The clever bastard,” I whisper, and Ryan meets my eyes, then points at his phone. It’s on speaker, and I hear it start to ring.
“Martin Meeks.”
Oh my God, I mouth, and Ryan nods, then says, “Mr. Meeks. My name is Ryan Hunter. I’m—”
“I know who you are, Mr. Hunter. Randall very much appreciated everything you did for him.”
“I’m happy to hear that. I’m calling about his daughter.”
“Felicia.”
“No. I’m calling about Gabriella.”
There’s a pause on the line. “Go ahead.”
“Before his death, her father—well, Jeff Anderson—said she should call you. At least, I assume it was you he meant.”
“I see.” Another long pause. “Is she there? Has she met with the probate attorney yet?”
“Ms. Smythe passed away. But no. She hasn’t spoken to anyone. She’s—she’s been laying low.”
“I see,” he says, and from the tone of his voice I think he does understand. “There are things she should know. Can I speak to her?”
I’m already off the bed by the time Ryan nods at me, and I race to the other side of the suite and pound on the door. Baxter opens it, looking confused, and when I tell him to get Gabby, he opens the second connecting door to the bedroom and calls for her to come out of the bathroom. The bed, I notice, hasn’t been slept in. But the sofa bed in Baxter’s part looks thoroughly rumpled.
I meet Baxter’s eyes as we wait, and I watch as red creeps up his neck. A moment later, Gabby emerges in a bathrobe, her mouth forming an O when she sees me.
“Like I’m going to judge,” I say, then take her arm. “Come on. We have the attorney on the phone for you.”
“Oh!”
They both follow, and we meet Ryan, who’s coming toward us, by the couch. We all sit, and Ryan puts the phone on the coffee table.
“She’s here,” he says.
“Gabriella?” His voice is fuzzy over the speaker phone. “My name is Martin Meeks. I’m an attorney and a friend of your father. I understand you haven’t spoken to anyone yet about the probate of Randall Cartwright’s will?”
Her brow furrows. “No. Why would I? It didn’t have anything to do with me. It’s not like Randall reached out after my dad contacted him about the DNA results. He’s never had anything at all to do with me. I mean, I assume you know all that?”
“I do. Yes. As far as what you’re specifically saying goes, yes.”
Gabby looks at me, and I shrug. “What does that mean?” she asks.
There’s a pause, then Martin clears his throat and says, “Some of what I need to tell you is public record. Some is more personal. But I’d like confirmation that you’re you. I’d like to ask you some questions that Mr. Cartwright set up. Is that okay?”
She looks completely baffled. I’m not surprised. I’m baffled, too. I catch her eye and shrug. She grimaces, then nods. “Sure. I guess.”
“Who was Mr. Anderson’s best friend growing up?”
“Randall Cartwright.”
“And who was the third member of their group of friends?”
“I—I don’t know. I didn’t know about any of this until right before my father died. It was sudden—a car wreck. He didn’t tell me anything.”
“I see. Well, this will take a bit longer, then. And the truth is that if you are Gabriella, then there’s not much time left.”
“For what?” I ask, unable to keep my mouth shut.
“I’m sorry. You are—?”
“Wait!” Gabriella leans closer. “Was the friend a woman?”
Martin is silent.
“I’m right, aren’t I? Lorraine. Her name was Lorraine.”
For a moment, there’s silence, then Mr. Meeks says, “Yes, Ms. Anderson. That was her name.”
“How the hell did you know that?” I ask.
“It’s my middle name.” She makes a face. “I hate it, but Daddy always said it was a name that was important to him. I took a shot.”
“What’s going on?” Ryan demands. “Ms. Anderson’s life is in danger. She’s answered your questions. Now answer ours.”
“Immediately following Felicia’s death, Randall changed his will to leave his entire estate to William, his stepbrother.”
I meet Ryan’s eyes. That explains why William has the house. He probably set up his own trust.
“Following that alteration in his will, Randall received word from Mr. Anderson.”
“About the paternity test,” Gabby says. “Daddy said he told Randall that Felicia and I were biologically his. But like I said, he never reached out to me.”
“I can’t speak to that. But I can tell you that once he learned about you, Randall changed his will again. His entire estate goes to his surviving issue. If no such issue presents a claim for the estate within one year, then William inherits everything.”
“And in the meantime, the property is held in trust,” Ryan says, in the kind of tone that suggests the pieces are firmly falling together. As for Gabby, she looks to be in shock.
“When does the year expire?” I ask.
“Ms. Anderson will need to come forward by the end of the day on Monday,” Mr. Meeks says, then outlines the procedure for doing that. “Do you understand the process?”
“I think so,” she says, looking at Baxter, who nods.
“Once you’ve officially made a claim, your identity will be verified. You were identical twins, of course. But Randall wanted to ease the fight for you if you wanted to make the claim. I have tissue samples of his stored with various Cyro organizations so that DNA can be confirmed.”
“Okay.” That’s all Gabby says. She looks a little shell-shocked.
“I’m very happy to have heard from you,” Mr. Meeks says. “And I know your father—both of them—would be pleased.”
We end the call, and Gabby looks between the two of us. “Why didn’t Daddy tell me this a year ago?”
“He may not have realized that the will had been changed to include any kids, and not just Felicia,” Ryan says. “Or maybe he thought the estate would be an albatross. We’ll probably never know.”
“Maybe he only learned about the will recently,” I suggest. “Around the time he started to fear someone was trying to hurt you.”
“My uncle, you mean.” Her voice is full of bitterness. “Maybe Daddy just knew that this was not a family I would want to be a part of.”
“It’s not William,” Ryan says. “He’s the one who snuck me this number. But I think it’s time for a talk with his wife.”