Page 21 of Close Match

“Thank you,” I say sincerely. Veronica’s eyes light with hope. “Thank you for being Mom’s confidante when she needed you. Thank you for standing by us during this horrible time, but I think we have it from here.”

“Linnie,” she whispers.

“Evangeline,” I snap. The budding hope dies in her eyes. “Linnie is reserved for the few people I can trust. That’s the one name I know is mine. After all…” I let out a bitter laugh. “I’m certainly not Evangeline Katherine Brogan Todd like my birth certificate says I am, right?”

Turning, I stalk out of Veronica’s studio with Bristol and Simon at my heels. My heart is breaking at the sounds of my godmother’s sobs. Then again, it’s been cracked wide open since I read this journal.

* * *

Once we’re backon the Upper West Side, I don’t enter my building right away. “I need to walk. I need to be alone for a while.”

Simon pulls me into his arms for a hug. “Do you have your cell on you?”

Nodding into his broad chest, I murmur, “Yes.”

“Keys, cards?” Bristol comes up and wraps her hand around my bicep.

“Jesus, Bris. Yes.” I sound exasperated, but I release Simon long enough to pull my sister into a long hug. There’s no way I could have got through this without these two parts of my heart.

“Okay. Call me if you need me.” Simon pulls Bristol to his side as they walk the few buildings to get to their place. I start walking toward Fifth Avenue. Right now, all I want to do is disappear into the crowded streets of tourists.

Blindly, I start walking past stores I’d typically enjoy. I pass by Bergdorf Goodman and Prada. I cross the street to avoid the American Girl Doll store and power past Stuart Weitzman and Cartier. Cutting around people coming up subway entrances and off buses, it isn’t until I slam into someone that I realize I’ve walked almost fifteen blocks. “Excuse me,” I murmur. The woman curses at me in three different languages; I only recognize the English.

Shrugging, I step around her and then freeze. Someone slams into me from behind. “It says, ‘Walk.’ Freaking tourists,” a man mutters.

I don’t bother to correct him because I’m entranced at what’s in front of me. It could be nothing, or it could be everything. Maybe some of the questions plaguing me since last night could be answered by the rainbow shining behind in the Duane Reade drugstore window.

A DNA test.

When they first started becoming popular, Bristol and I used to joke around we should do one to see if we were 100 percent Irish. Bristol—ever the practical mind—would roll her eyes and say, “No one is ever 100 percent anything, Linnie.”

That’s now truer than ever. We’re certainly not 100 percent sisters.

If we’d done it then while we were drunk and stupid, I’d have had the answers while Mom was still alive. I could have confronted her with the million questions running through my brain. Now, my questions are going to be left up to science and luck.

Who knows if Mom really knew who my father was? Maybe she contacted him and he wanted nothing to do with me. Maybe he’s married with another family. Or maybe he has no idea there’s a woman out there who carries his blood who had no idea until last night that she was even his.

It’d be insane. I’m not on the cover ofPeopleevery day, but I am high profile enough it would be immensely stupid even to contemplate it…

A little voice whispers,But no one would have to know who you are. How often am I recognized?

Am I really going to do this?

I’m practically shoved into the middle of Fifth Avenue on the wave of foot traffic. It’s pulling me across at the light at Forty-Fifth Street. My breathing accelerates as each step puts me closer to doing the crazy—the inevitable.

I’ll figure out all the details with Bristol and Simon later, I decide. The automated door opens for me as I step inside. Making my way into the line, I get behind some guy who’s arguing the price of the two cases of water he’s buying. Impatiently, I wait my turn until I hear, “Next in line, please.”

Pulling out my credit card, I slap it on the counter. “I’ll take one of the DNA tests.”

“Do you have a Duane Reade card? They’re on sale for thirty dollars off…”

“No,” I cut the clerk off. “I don’t.” I’m completely lying. I don’t want my name attached to this kit in any way.

“That will be $195.96.” I gape at her. “That includes your New York City sales tax. You can buy the kits cheaper online if you like.”

“No, this is fine. It’s a gift.” I stretch the truth. I guess it’s a gift when you’re trying to find out who your father is. Right?

I stick my debit card into the machine, enter my PIN, and pull it out quickly. The long receipt prints. The clerk bags it all up and says, “Thank you for shopping with us.”