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appeared alone. My hope sunk. Gladys wasn't going

to give us an audience.

"Mother will be down," she said, "but my father

is not able to see anyone at the moment. You might as

well sit," she told Beau. "It will be a while. She's not

exactly prepared for visitors right now," she added

bitterly. Beau took a seat beside me obediently. Toby

stared at us a moment.

"Why were you so obstinate? If there was ever

a time my mother needed the baby around her, it was

now. How cruel of you two to make it difficult and

force us to go to a judge." She glared at me and then

turned directly to Beau. "I might have expected

something like this from her, but I thought you were

more compassionate, more mature."

"Toby," I said. "I'm not who you think I am." She smirked. "I know exactly who you are. Don't you think we have people like you here, selfish, vain people who couldn't care less about anyone

else?"

"But . . ."

Beau put his hand on my arm. I looked at him

and saw him plead for silence with his eyes. I

swallowed back my words and closed my eyes. Toby

turned and left us.

"She'll understand afterward," Beau said softly.

A good ten minutes later, we heard Gladys Tate's

heels clicking down the stairway, each click like a

gunshot aimed at my heart. Our eyes fixed with

anticipation on the doorway until she appeared. She

loomed before us, taller, darker in her black mourning

dress, her hair pinned back as severely as Toby's. Her

lips were pale, her cheeks pallid, but her eyes were