“I’m Hattie,” she said proudly. “That’s Lou, and Daisy, and Pip. We’re quadruplets!”
Green eyes. Soft brown hair. Delicate little noses. Four faces I’d only ever seen in one place: on the woman I’d loved more than anything in the world.
“Where’s your mom?” I managed.
“She works here,” Hattie said. “But we’re not supposed to bother her when she’s working.”
I followed them out into the dining room.
And there she was.
Maren Brennan stood by the swinging kitchen door in a faded black server’s apron. Her hair was shorter. She was thinner. There were tired shadows under her eyes that hadn’t been there seven years ago. Her manager, a red-faced man with a clipboard, was jabbing a finger at her.
“I told you, Brennan. You cannot keep four kids in my storage room overnight. It’s a health code violation. I don’t care what your landlord did.”
“Please,” she whispered. “It’s nineteen degrees outside. I just need somewhere safe for them until morning. Just one night.”
Then she turned, and her green eyes met mine across the room.
“Maren?”
Every bit of color left her face.
“Girls,” she said, very quietly. “Get your coats. We’re leaving.”
Outside, the February wind cut straight through my suit. Four little girls huddled on the sidewalk next to two battered duffel bags. Maren knelt on the frozen concrete, trying to zip four thin jackets with shaking fingers. One of the zippers was broken.
I couldn’t watch it.
I took the key card to my apartment out of my wallet. A loft in the Ironworks District I hardly ever used.
“Take them somewhere warm,” I said. “No questions tonight. I promise.”
She shook her head without looking up. “We don’t need anything from you, Everett.”
The smallest girl, Pip, tugged on her sleeve. “Mommy, I’m cold. Can we please go somewhere warm?”
Maren’s face crumpled.
She took the key card.
Before she climbed into the back of my SUV with the girls, she turned to me, her eyes shining with tears.
“You don’t get to disappear for seven years,” she said, “and suddenly decide you want to be their father.”
My stomach dropped.
“Maren. I didn’t disappear. You left me.”
The anger in her face just stopped. Like a candle going out.
She looked at me for a long time.
“Then somebody lied to both of us,” she whispered.
At 5:12 p.m., I called my assistant from the sidewalk.
“Cancel tonight.”
“The engagement, sir?”
“Everything.”
My phone rang before I’d even hung up. MOTHER.
I sent it to voicemail. The diamond ring in my jacket pocket suddenly felt like a stone.
Then Maren rolled down the SUV window and grabbed my arm.
“Everett. There’s something you need to know about your mother.” Her voice shook. “Seven years ago, she offered me money to disappear. And when I said no, she did something much worse.”
Before I could ask what she meant, my phone buzzed. A text. From my mother.
DO NOT TAKE THOSE CHILDREN TO YOUR APARTMENT. YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU’RE GETTING YOURSELF INTO.
I stood frozen on that sidewalk as the SUV pulled away.
How did my mother know about the children at all?
CHAPTER 2: TWO VERSIONS OF THE SAME WINTER
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