My gaze narrowed to meet my assistant Stephanie’s as I entered Sparrow Enterprise’s private office suite. There was no way she wasn’t aware of my ire regarding the interruption of my morning plans; however, just in case, my scowl pointed her direction should have been a clear indication of my current disposition. As our eyes met, her furrowed brow, wide eyes, and tilt of her head led me to widen my inspection of the room. My stance grew taller, my neck straightening, and chest inflating with a deep breath as the blue-eyed gaze I’d known my entire life burned my direction.
Standing in all her regality, dressed and styled to perfection, wasn’t the woman I’d prepared to meet but the one who the last time I’d seen her, I’d told her to leave my home, the one who gave me life.
“Sterling,” Genevieve Sparrow said, my name rolling off her tongue coated with enough sweetness that was I diabetic, I’d need an immediate insulin injection.
Turning away from her greeting, I stepped closer to Stephanie. “Judge Landers?”
“Sir, I took her to conference room four. She was visibly...” Her gaze went to my mother and back to me. “...agitated.”
My mother’s skinny hand landed on my arm. “I need to speak to you alone.”
My nostrils flared as I inhaled, her sweet perfume taking over my senses. Everything in me wanted to tell her to make an appointment, to come back another day, or leave and try a phone call.
Stephanie continued, “Mrs. Sparrow accompanied Judge Landers.”
Turning on my heels, I stared down at my mother. “In my office.”
Together we stepped down the hallway. As we passed conference room four, through the slender window beside the door—though the blinds were pulled, they weren’t completely closed—I caught a glimpse of Annabelle Landers, pacing near the table, wringing her hands.
With a momentary smile, my mind went to Araneae and how she did the same thing when she was thinking or concerned.
Once we were within my office, I shut the door and gave my mother a one-word question. “Why?”
Her lips pursed as her chin rose. “Things are out of hand. There has been some discussion...amongst those of us who remember what happened.”
“The old guard. Tell me, Mother, what have you old biddies decided? That is, as long as you’re aware that it’s only my opinion that counts.”
Genevieve shook her head. “We are older than you, you’re correct. Old however, is a state of mind, and none of us are that. Sterling, power may give you many things. It doesn’t, however, give you wisdom. That, son, comes with age and experience. I told you the last time I saw you that what you’ve done will irreparably damage our lives—all of our lives. I warned you. I’ve been warning you since you were a child, imploring you to allow the dead to stay that way.”
Sitting behind my desk, I brought my phone out of my pocket and placed it before me, hopeful to find a message from Araneae or Patrick. There wasn’t one. Under normal circumstances—normal being a subjective word—multitasking wasn’t a problem. With both of the current figurative fires involving Araneae, I was having trouble focusing on my mother.
With a huff, she sat at one of the chairs across from my desk, perching on the edge, her slender legs daintily crossed at the ankle, her knees pinched tightly together, and her handbag clutched in her lap. It was as if all of my life she’d been a walking, talking example of ladies’ etiquette. The part that never aligned with that facade was her ability, all the while appearing serene and genteel, to debase or chastise, her words venomous as her smile remained intact.
“There are times,” she went on, “when we ladies have needed to step in, to forget for a moment our differences, and concentrate on the future of our world. I implore you to listen to me.”
“You have three minutes.”
“May I remind you that I’m your mother?”
“That seems like a waste of your first ten seconds, but by all means, mother, spend your time however you choose.”
Sucking in a breath she squared her shoulders. “The tensions were incredibly high around the time Annabelle gave birth.” She swallowed. “Daniel McCrie was wrong to leverage stolen information. He put Annabelle, their child, and himself in danger.
“While Annabelle and I went different paths, we’ve known each other for nearly...well, ever. We went to the same schools. Our parents ran in the same circles.”
My mother came from old money, steeped in the history of Chicago. Originally her ancestors came from Ireland, some of the early arrivals. Their specialty was farming. It wasn’t until the next generation that their horizons were broadened by the construction of the Illinois and Michigan canal, allowing the shipping of goods from the Great Lakes to the Mississippi River and down to the Gulf of Mexico. That was in the mid-1800s. Not long after, her great—a few greats—grandmother married a man willing to risk the family fortune on the idea of expanding shipping beyond the waterways onto rails. Twenty years later, refrigerated train cars improved the transportation of meats and produce. Chicago became a main railroad hub. Those railroads opened the way to transport lumber, and then came steel. Demand required factories and warehouses. Employment opportunities abounded. The city grew. Her great—how many times—grandfather’s investment paid off, propelling the family into the upper echelon of Chicago’s elite. Money begot money.
Her family’s wealth gave Allister what he needed to make Sparrow Enterprises into a well-known name, a competitor on the world market. His family’s influence supported his other endeavors.
Though I didn’t know Annabelle’s family history as well, I was aware that her family also dated back to the beginnings of Chicago and included generations of lawyers, bankers, and investors. These were the people who worked beside the entrepreneurs. Together they forged the city where we now live.
“Your time is running out,” I said.
“It was incredibly difficult for Annabelle to see that girl with you.” My mother’s voice lowered. “This is not to be repeated; however, she admitted herself for rest.”
I nodded. “I’m aware.”
“How would you know that?”
“If it happens in this city...” Or should I have said originates? “...I know.”
She shook her head as I looked down at my watch, silently reminding her that her time was about out.
“When Annabelle came home from the spa, she called me,” my mother said.
Spa.
Hmm.
Otherwise known as the psych ward at an out-of-state hospital.
“I’m well aware of the stories your father told you,” Genevieve continued, “about a future for you and that...that girl. He convinced you that she was Annabelle and Daniel’s daughter. Old wives’ tales and fables.” Her chin rose higher. “It’s time for you to come clean and tell Annabelle the truth, that you have no proof of the girl’s paternity. That the identity you’ve given her is simply based upon a story created by a man who’s now gone. Your father planted fiction in your head and you tended it, letting it take root. Give poor Annabelle closure. Closure that she can only find by confirming that the baby she held and buried was her child and that part of her life is over.”
I took a deep breath and shook my head, recalling Pauline McFadden’s words to Araneae: The real Araneae McCrie would never betray her family like that. Your fabrication will never work. I don’t know who you are or why you’ve allowed this man to convince you otherwise, but Araneae McCrie died. Some second-rate imposter who stole a bracelet won’t get away with threatening our family.
“I can’t and won’t do that,” I said. “I doubt very seriously that my father told a fable. As you may remember, he was never the bedtime-story-type of man. Out of curiosity, was Pauline McFadden around for this cackling-hen session?”
“Yes. She was as well as Ruth Hillman. We all remember.”
Ruth was Wendell Hillman’s wife. She’d also been at the club the night Araneae was poisoned.
“Essentially, you’re telling me that you, my mother, Genevieve Sparrow, sat down with three McFaddens.”
“Martha Carlson was also there. Technically, Annabelle isn’t a McFadden.” She shrugged. “Nor is Martha.” Martha Carlson was the wife of my father’s consigliere, Rudy Carlson, one of the men in the room the first time I saw Araneae’s photo. “Not by blood.”
Taking another look at my phone, I stood. “You came here today to ask me to tell Annabelle that Araneae is a fake, an imposter.” Though it was a question, I delivered it much more as a confirmation.
My mother looked up, her gaze never leaving mine. “Sterling, I’m asking you to do what’s right, to save the world where we all live. Rubio is poised for his presidential bid. You have the power here in Chicago. You can be instrumental in burying old hatchets and finally do what your father never could do—coexist. The possibilities are endless if we work together instead of against one another. As president, Rubio could do much for Chicago. There is nothing good that will come from...her.”
Leaning forward, I splayed my fingers over the top of my desk moving my weight to my arms. “Her has a name. Her name is Araneae McCrie. I can tell you that in the weeks since she’s come into my life—where I brought her—when it comes to that woman, not a girl, everything has been good.”
My mother stood. “Tell me, Sterling, do you have proof? Do you have more than war room stories made up by vengeful men?”
“Your time is up. Do you plan to join me for my discussion with Judge Landers?”
Her head shook ever so slightly as her lips pursed. “No. Annabelle asked for my help to talk to you, to see you. Whatever the two of you discuss is none of my business. My only concern is you.”
“Hardly, Mother. Your concern is maintaining the life you’ve perfected, the one that’s shiny on the outside and filthy on the inside. That secret information that Daniel McCrie supposedly tried to leverage unsuccessfully, how did you feel about that?”
“I-I don’t know for sure what it was. Your father never told me those kinds of things. I didn’t even know that Daniel came to him for help until years later.”
“Wait, what do you know about that? Daniel came to my father for what kind of help?”
With the hand not holding her purse, she slapped the side of her thigh. “Leave it all buried. I told Allister the same thing when he had that tiny coffin exhumed.”
I thought back through our extensive research. “There’s no public record of that. There would be something listed with the coroner’s office or medical examiner.”
“Oh, Sterling, it wasn’t here in Chicago, not even in Illinois. At first, Annabelle and Daniel didn’t tell many people where they buried her. Of course, Rubio and Pauline were at the small funeral.”
I knew where Araneae’s body had supposedly been buried; however, I waited to hear if my mother would divulge the truth or more of her lies. “There would still be a record.”
“Even if you looked in the right place...you remember your father. He didn’t go to the authorities. What excuse would he have to request an exhumation? Instead, he ordered it himself, having his men dig her up and put the casket back.”
“When?”
My mother’s complexion paled as she began to pace a trek to the large windows and back. “If I tell you this, will you please tell Annabelle the truth?”
“I will tell her the truth.”
“It was years later. You were too young to remember when the infant died, when it all began, but this—the exhumation was over a decade later...” She shook her head. “…no, even more recent than that. I believe you were home from the army and at Michigan. I don’t know for sure when it was...time goes fast and it’s hard to keep up.”
She stood at the window, looking at the city and lake yet appearing to see neither. Her mind was back to a time before I was in power, a time that I had no way of remembering.
“It took years,” she said wistfully, “but finally McCrie had gotten himself to a place where he was working again with Rubio and occasionally Allister, convincing those around him of his loyalty. With Rubio’s help, Annabelle had been appointed as a federal judge. Rubio was spending more time in Washington than in Chicago. Things were looking up for everyone.
“One night, your father was upset, more agitated than normal. Usually he didn’t say much in front of me, but we all knew something was happening whether it was said or not. That one night he’d been drinking. After Rudy left the house, Allister was livid, and I was the one who happened to be present. Your father ranted about being played by Daniel. He said that he’d demanded Rudy confirm that the buried infant wasn’t...” She let out a long breath. “Later, Allister told me that his men exhumed the body. He had doctors who did the testing. They confirmed the remains were of Annabelle and Daniel’s child.” She pleaded, “You see, there’s no public record. It wasn’t carried out by a governmental agency. Tell her the truth.”
Sighing, I shook my head. “My father lied to you, Mother.”
Her blue eyes turned my way. “No, because after, it was when...” She turned back to the window. “Something had gone south again with McCrie. Just like around the time of her birth, both families were again at odds.”
I leaned back against my desk, watching my mother’s reflection in the glass window, the way her lips tensed and brow furrowed.
“It was when McCrie...” She bit her painted lip and shook her head. “...I know what was declared publicly, but it was a hit. I always wondered if it had to do with the information about the infant.” Her head shook. “But your father swore it wasn’t from the Sparrows. He even met with Rubio to confirm that it wasn’t Sparrows.
“Don’t you understand? If he hadn’t, there would have been a war like Chicago had never seen. But it didn’t make sense. If it wasn’t from the Sparrows, it implied that Rubio had authorized the gruesome death of his own brother-in-law. It was a dangerous time. Finally, the conclusion was made that the hit was a family from Philly or New York capitalizing on our infighting.
“Like we just did, we ladies came together and made a plea for peace before it was too late.”
I stood and walked closer. “Does Annabelle know what you just told me? Does she know that my father authorized the exhumation of a body, one she believed to be her child?”
My mother shook her head. “No. The exhumation wasn’t confirmed. The church where that girl is buried is in a small town in the middle of nowhere Wisconsin. A few months later, Annabelle was contacted by someone telling her that they believed there might have been tampering—they blamed it on kids’ pranks. The church told her that the ground had been dug. They didn’t know if the casket had been reached or not. You see, it happened in the dead of winter. It wasn’t reported to Annabelle until after the snow melted, nearly three months after Daniel’s death. Annabelle didn’t pursue it.”
“So you’re saying, she never got that information.”
“Heavens, no. DNA results are hardly the conversation topic for social events. Pauline, Martha, Ruth, and I were the ones to know the truth.”
My phone buzzed. On the screen: PATRICK.
I swiped the screen.
“SHE’S STILL INSIDE. I DON’T HEAR ANYTHING.”
What the fuck?
I texted back:
“I TOLD YOU NOT TO LET HER OUT OF YOUR SIGHT.”
“Sterling,” my mother asked, “is everything all right?”
My gaze narrowed. “No, everything is not all right. We’re done. Allister lied to you. Araneae is who I say she is. I have the proof.”
Next, I sent Araneae a text.
“YOU HAVE FIVE SECONDS TO GET TO PATRICK OR YOUR ASS IS MINE.”
Fucking follow one damn direction. Once.
Araneae wasn’t the only one who would hear about this.
Why the hell would Patrick let her out of his sight?