I took the cue, saying, “Not at all.” I leaned toward Worth, confiding. “He showed up at my office, during work hours. He claims to be my half brother, but I thought”—I glanced at Birdwine, inert and easy on the sofa, absorbed in some celeb wedding or baby shots.
“I see, yes. You’re a woman of means, and your long-lost brother appears out of nowhere. You’re right to feel cautious,” Worth said, going right where I’d sent him. “So you—hired your own investigator?” He mirrored my sloe-eyed glance at Birdwine. When I responded with nonverbal agreement, rolling my eyes as if my assessment of Birdwine matched his, he took a risk and fished a little deeper. “Your mother couldn’t confirm Julian’s identity?”
I dropped my lashes so he wouldn’t see the flash of interest light my eyes. According to Birdwine, Worth’s modus operandi was to quickly gather as much info as he could, then parcel it out in drops over long, fat, billable months. If he found Kai back in November—that must have been prediagnosis. Did he not know she was dead? If not, I had a nice trap, made and waiting for me. I put a little bait into it.
“My mother I are estranged,” I said. “And I wouldn’t ask her about Julian even if we were on speaking terms. She’s not what I would call an honest person.”
Worth came around the desk, closing the distance between us. He lowered his voice, hoping to speak below the range of Birdwine’s ears. “So you hired outside help.” I nodded assent and he said, in a near whisper, “Why him?”
“Mr. Birdwine did some work for my firm. But in this matter . . .” I whispered back, letting the sentence trail off, incomplete and unsatisfied.
Worth leaned in closer, touched his chest. “Well, now you’ve come right to Julian’s source. That should have been your first move, really.” He was casting himself as Daddy Worth, here to helpfully clear up a small confusion over Julian’s legitimacy. I wanted to know if Julian was a con man, out to fleece me, or if he was really the brother who had been put up for adoption. Daddy Worth knew, and Birdwine didn’t. I kept my eyes wide and accepted the role of Girl Who Needs Papa to Explain the Situation.
I said, “I wanted to ask you why Julian came to me. Julian doesn’t seem to know where my mother is living. You found me, and, well”—I glanced at Birdwine and dropped my voice again, but not low enough. I wanted him to hear—“follow the money. It’s the one thing Mr. Birdwine told me that makes sense. It couldn’t have taken you long to get from me to her. I send her a check every month.”
Birdwine snorted. “I said it wouldn’t take a competent investigator long. Is your mother hiding near his ass? Is he allowed to use both hands?”
I pursed my lips as if the salty language had offended me, then looked to Worth as if to say, Do you see what I’ve had to put up with? Worth gave me a disapproving headshake, and now here we were, allies. Damn, but Birdwine could work a room.
“Well, of course I found her,” Worth said, nice and loud for Birdwine’s benefit. “It’s simply poor timing that you came to me instead of the other way around. I followed your checks to Austin soon after I told Julian about you, but I like to be thorough. I wanted to confirm before I got Julian all riled. You’ve seen yourself how impetuous the boy can be.”
“Confirm? You met my mother?” I said, and let my skepticism show.
“No, no. We PIs have a network. Those of us who are in good with our colleagues do, at any rate.” Another gimlet glance toward Birdwine. “I had a local guy in Austin do a drive-by. He sent me confirmation, some pictures. I’d planned to contact you this week, and then bring you and Julian together in a much less stressful way.”
I smiled, both for him, encouraging, and to myself, because I had this asshole now.
“Pictures?” I said. “Oh, could I . . .” I mirrored his body language, leaning in and touching my own hand to my chest. “My mother and I are estranged, as I said. We haven’t been in the same state for years.” I let that painful truth sit baldly in the room for just a moment, rock solid. The truth was always best. It had such a ring to it. A single good truth could support whole flocks of half-truths and misdirections. I trained sweet, lamp-lit eyes on Worth. “I’d very much like to see the pictures that your colleague took this week.”
“Oh, certainly,” he said. “I’ve got a couple printed out, if you’d like to have one?”
“Thank you. I would,” I said breathily.
Worth turned to the file cabinets that stood by the wall behind him and opened the top drawer. He finger-walked his way through the B’s and pulled his Julian file. He flipped through, finally pulling out a single thick sheet of photograph paper. He set the closed file down on his desk in front of him and leaned across, passing the picture to me.