Before he could stop himself, he took her hand, pressing the bit of paper that contained her fortune into her palm. “I meant what I said. You really are one of the bravest women I know. You’ll get past this. I promise. In the meantime, if you need someone to talk to or just someone to eat takeout with, you know where to find me.”

TWENTY-NINE

Sweetwater, Virginia

June 10, 2017

With summer approaching, Christy-Lynn had shifted her energies from the store, which was humming along nicely, to transforming the bungalow into a real home. Now, as she eyed the remaining cartons in the living room, she could finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. With any luck, she’d have them sorted by the end of the day.

She thought of Wade’s reaction the other night—Are you moving?—and felt a twinge of guilt. She’d been avoiding him since the great Chinese food debacle, going so far as hiding out in the back room when he stopped by the store for coffee.

She should have called the next day to thank him for the takeout, but she hadn’t been able to make herself pick up the phone. It felt like the kind of thing you did after a date, not after lapsing into a crying jag over soggy eggrolls. She had never been the type to go to pieces, and yet that’s exactly what she’d done with Wade. But she hadn’t been able to get Iris out of her head. In fact, she still couldn’t.

She had no idea how much a social security check for someone like Rhetta might run, but it couldn’t be much. Certainly not enough to raise a child on. And now that Stephen was dead, the monthly allowance he used to give Honey had stopped, which meant there were things Iris would have to do without. Things like books, doctors, medicine—a roof that wasn’t patched with plywood.

The thought infuriated her. That Stephen had died without a will should have surprised her but didn’t. Death was for mere mortals, not bestselling authors with adoring fans and millions in the bank. But all that should have changed when Iris came along. And maybe it had. It was a long shot, but maybe he’d made some separate arrangement to provide for Iris that his lawyer had purposely omitted from their conversations and had yet to execute.

She dug her phone out of her purse and pulled up Peter Hagan’s number. She was surprised when the receptionist put her straight through. “Peter, it’s Christy . . . Christine.”

“Christine, it’s good to hear from you. How’ve you been getting along?”

“I’m fine. Look, I have a question. I know Stephen didn’t have an actual will, but I was wondering if there was some piece of paper somewhere, something you didn’t tell me about.”

“I’m sorry?”

Christy-Lynn tried to analyze his tone. Was he playing dumb? Purposely being coy? “I know about Iris,” she said flatly.

“Who?”

“Iris Rawlings. Stephen’s daughter.”

There was a long pause, though she couldn’t say whether it was of the awkward or confused variety. “Peter?”

“I’m sorry, Christine. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Look, you don’t need to protect him anymore. I know everything.”

“Then you obviously know more than I do. If there’s a daughter somewhere, Stephen never mentioned her to me.”

“How do I know you’re not lying?”

“You don’t. But I’m telling you as a friend that Stephen never approached me about any kind of estate planning. Not for you and certainly not for a child.”

“Do you know the name Honey Rawlings?”

“I’m afraid not. Should I?”

“She was the woman in the car with Stephen the night he died.”

“I wasn’t aware that she’d been identified.”

“She hasn’t—officially. But that was her name.”

“And how do you know that?”

“I just do. And I’d like to keep that between us.”

“Of course, but where are you going with this?”

“Stephen and this woman had a child, Peter. A little girl named Iris. So I thought maybe he’d made some kind of provision, in case anything ever happened. She’s living with her great-grandmother in West Virginia, but with Stephen gone, there’s no money. It’s terrible.”

“Christine.” Peter paused to clear his throat and perhaps frame his response. “Let me caution you in the strongest terms against getting involved here. For starters, you have absolutely no way of knowing if this little girl—”

“Iris.”

“Yes, all right, Iris. We have no way of knowing if Stephen is actually Iris’s father. Your concern is admirable, but you have no idea what kind of people come out of the woodwork when someone of Stephen’s stature dies. For all we know, this is just some hard luck story conjured up to con money from you. It happens all the time.”

“This isn’t a con, Peter. I’m sure of it.”

“How?” he said, clearly frustrated. “How can you possibly be sure?”

“Because I know my own husband’s face when it’s looking back at me.”

“You’ve . . . seen her?”

“Last weekend. I drove to West Virginia. Iris is Stephen’s daughter.”

“And that,” Peter said tightly, “is exactly the kind of thing you shouldn’t be saying out loud. It could be seen as an admission of paternity and open a lot of very expensive doors. I’m sure your heart is in the right place, but there are established ways—legal ways—to handle these things, and until we avail ourselves of those, I strongly suggest you remove yourself from the situation.”