Initially, there was silence. Derek was about to hang up when he heard a voice. “I’m sorry; I’m looking for the beautiful baby girl I was forced to give away thirty-three years ago.”
Derek listened. He remembered that after Sophia’s parents’ funeral, she said she didn’t want to know her birth parents, yet this moment in time may be their only chance to learn the truth. “I’m sorry; my wife is indisposed right now. She’s had a difficult few weeks.”
“Yes, that’s the reason I’m calling. I never wanted to interfere with her and her adoptive parents, but now—”
Derek interjected, “Tell me the date you gave birth.”
Sophia’s eyes widened as she heard her husband’s question.
“July 19, 1980.”
Derek turned to Sophia. Her beautiful gray eyes, which had finally stopped crying over her parents, were now moist once again.
“What did she say?” Sophia whispered.
With his hand over the phone, Derek nodded. “She said your birth date. I think it might be your mother.”
“My mother died in a car accident.” Sophia straightened her neck and took the phone. “Please, don’t call again. My parents are dead. I don’t know you.”
The woman on the other end of the line spoke, “I’m sorry, I won’t call you again.”
Derek watched his wife’s countenance melt. He knew it was the first time Sophia had heard her birth mother’s voice, and he couldn’t imagine the questions that were rapidly firing through her beautiful head. Why did she give her up? Has she ever regretted her decision? What kind of person was she? What did she look like? Did they look alike?
Sophia swallowed the tears threatening her speech and said, “Wait—if you could give me your number, I’ll think about it. Then—when I’m ready—I can call you.”
The woman exhaled and replied, “Yes, of course.”
Sophia’s strength was spent. It broke Derek’s heart to see her fighting this new upheaval of emotion. Wrapping her in his arms, he took the phone from her hand. His voice was neither welcoming nor rejecting, “You may give me the number. When my wife is ready—if she’s ready—she will call you. Please, do not call her phone again.”
The woman hesitated only a second and then rattled off ten numbers. Derek repeated the numbers. Not offering a closing salutation, he disconnected the line. His concern wasn’t the woman on the phone; it was the distraught woman in his arms.
Catherine grinned. She’d done what Nathaniel had wanted her to do—she’d contacted her daughter. From the information in the file, Catherine could tell that Anton had been watching Sophia. She wondered what, if anything, he’d done for her. Catherine needed more information.
Anton had a list of private detectives and others who’d proven themselves helpful in the past. Briefly, Catherine thought of Roach, Phillip Roach. He’d done an excellent job with Catherine’s directives. Of course, it helped that he’d been unhappy about losing his job with Anton. Catherine wasn’t sure she’d be able to reach him. If she did, did Catherine want to know Claire’s location?
Oh, she had so many things to consider. Truthfully, Claire could wait—she wasn’t going anywhere. Right now, Catherine wanted to know more about Sophia. It was a pretty name—not one she would have chosen, but it was pretty. There were no pictures in the file, well other than a few of a very young girl. Catherine wondered what her daughter looked like. Did she look like her? or perhaps she looked like... Truthfully, that was why she didn’t want to do this in the first place.
Catherine Marie London was no longer that scared, lonely, and abused teenager at the mercy of her drugged out uncle. No—she was a strong fighter and a go-getter! She’d loved Nathaniel Rawls and outlasted Anton Rawls—both were impressive accomplishments.
Thanks to both, Catherine now had time and resources. She also had a plethora of questions. What did her daughter do for a living? Did she go to college? Were her adoptive parents good to her? Catherine told herself they were. If not, Nathaniel or Anton would’ve known, but what about Sophia’s husband? Could it be possible? Could Sophia really be married to someone associated with Jonathon Burke? And who did he think he was, talking to her the way he did, demanding her telephone number? Catherine sure as hell wasn’t intimidated. If a Rawls didn’t intimidate her—a Burke never could.
She, once again, searched the drawer of private files. As she fingered the tabs, Catherine remembered the saying, no sense reinventing the wheel. Knowing Anton better than anyone, Catherine was quite sure of his attention to meticulous detail. Surely he’d already researched Sophia’s husband. It was true, she could glean more information, but why not start with whatever Anton had already accumulated. When she passed the B’s without a Burke, her hopes began to fade. Then she saw the D’s—Derek Burke. Removing the folder, she laid it across the desk and began to read. The first page was a series of emails: