Page 1

Someone is attempting to blackmail my husband —my children’s daddy—the man who gives me a reason to wake up every morning because I know I’ll get to spend another day with him.

Blackmail my husband? Over my dead body!

As I stare down at the hand-written message in Ian’s hands, I’m doing everything I can to hold my shit together. I want to rage. I want to hit something—or rather someone.

But right now I need to maintain my cool because I don’t want to scare Ian. He’s already freaking out as he stares at that note, reading it over and over as he tries to make sense of it.

Ian,

I know everything.

Your mother was a drug addict and a whore.

And you’re no better.

I want a million dollars in small unmarked bills or else I’ll take it all to the press.

I have pictures. Lots of pictures. Of you. Of her. Of the filth you were born into.

And trust me, you don’t want that shit going public.

I’ll send instructions for where to deliver the money.

If you tell anyone, I’ll make sure you regret it.

I hold out my hand. “Give it to me, Ian.”

He hesitates for a moment, his gaze skimming the sheet of paper one more time. “Who would do this? Who would even have access to photos of me when I was young? I don’t even have photos like that.” His green eyes fill with pain when he asks the one question I’m sure is on both our minds. “Do you think it’s my mother?”

He means his birth mother, of course—the drug addict who ultimately lost custody of him. Not the woman he considers his real mom —Ruth Alexander—the woman who raised him from the age of five and gave him an amazing life filled with unconditional love and support.

I honestly don’t know how to answer his question.

“We don’t even know if she’s still alive,” I point out. Given her history of drug use, I wouldn’t be surprised if Ian’s birth mother was dead. I muster up as much patience as I can. “Give me the letter, baby.”

The anguish in his beautiful eyes guts me. I could kill whoever’s behind this. The fact that someone wants to hurt Ian makes me see red.

Pinching the corner of the page with his index finger and thumb, he carefully hands the letter over to me like it’s a live bomb that could explode in our faces any second.

This sheet of paper is evidence and, unfortunately, it’s been contaminated by Ian’s fingerprints, and now by mine. Still, if I can’t drum up any leads on my own, I’ll see if I can get some prints lifted off of it.

I refold the sheet of paper and slip it back into its envelope, which is hand-addressed to Ian. The handwriting is heavy, like a man’s. Whoever wrote this used a black permanent marker.

The envelope is not postmarked, which means it didn’t come through the postal service. Someone deliberately placed it in our mailbox. And that means we have video of them doing it. I’ve got every inch of this property covered by surveillance cameras. It’s not just our home here behind this tall wrought-iron fence. Our private investigation business is here, too, in a carriage house located across the driveway from the townhouse.

I tuck the envelope into the inside breast pocket of my suit jacket and steer Ian up the driveway to where our office manager, Kimi, is standing guard over the double stroller holding our twin infants.

Ian immediately glances down into the stroller to make sure the babies are okay. William Alexander Jamison—named after my dad, William, and bearing Ian’s last name, Alexander—and Elizabeth Ruth Jamison—named after my sister, Beth, and Ian’s adopted mom, Ruth.

Two dark-haired babies gaze up at Ian, their pale blue-green eyes blinking in the afternoon sunshine.

Will and Lizzie.

Born to us eight weeks ago through the kind generosity of a surrogate.

“Is everything okay?” Kimi asks. She frowns as she watches Ian push the stroller to the back of our townhouse, to the rear patio door that leads directly into the kitchen.

“Not exactly.” I glance down at our petite assistant, with her short, spiky purple hair and sparkling nose ring. She’s definitely a free spirit, dressed in a long flowery skirt and a white blouse with puffy sleeves. “I’ve got a job for you, Kimi. I need you to find out everything you can about Ian’s birth mother. She would have lost custody of him about twenty-five years ago, here in Chicago, when he was approximately five years old. I have nothing else to go on, I’m afraid. I don’t even know her name, and I don’t want to bother Ian with this. He’s going through enough as it is. See what you can dig up.”

Kimi nods confidently. “No problem, Mr. J. I’ll find her.”

“Thanks. Keep this between us for now, okay?”

“Sure thing, boss. Can you tell me what this is about? Knowing that might help in my research.”

I exhale heavily. I’m going to have to level with Kimi because I’ll need her help with this. “Ian just pulled an envelope out of our mailbox. It was hand-delivered sometime today. For starters, I need you to review the surveillance camera footage so we can try to ID whoever delivered it. And then find out everything you can on Ian’s birth mother.”

“Do you think she’s the one who left the note?”

“I don’t know, but it makes sense to start with her.”

As Kimi returns to the office, I follow Ian into the house. He has the babies out of their stroller and strapped into their baby seats, which are currently sitting side by side on the kitchen table. He’s in the middle of preparing bottles for two hungry babies.

Will is kicking his legs vigorously as he undoubtedly anticipates the arrival of a meal. Lizzie looks like she’s on the verge of throwing a fit.

I catch one of Will’s feet and give it a light squeeze. “Hang on, pal. Lunch is coming.”

Ian is standing at the kitchen counter with his back to me. He heard me come in, but he has yet to turn around to greet me like he normally would.

I walk up behind him and lay my hands on his hips. “I know you’re upset.” He doesn’t respond, which tells me just how bothered he is. “Ian?” I turn him to face me. “Talk to me.”

He swallows hard. “I thought my old life was behind me. All that pain and ugliness.” He shudders. “The nightmares. I thought it was all in the past.”

“It is in the past. I’ll find out who sent that message.” I cup his face and make him look me in the eye. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

“Do you think it’s my birth mother?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. But I promise I’ll find out.”

“She hurt me then, and she’s trying to hurt me now.”

“Please try not to jump to conclusions, Ian. One thing I learned as a homicide detective—let the evidence do the work for you. We don’t know for sure who sent that message.”

“But who else could it be?” His voice breaks. “Who else could have photographs of me during that time? Or of my birth mom? It has to be her.”

His eyes tear up, and a few drops spill over onto his cheeks. I gently brush them away with the pads of my thumbs. It infuriates me that anyone would do this to him. “I’ll take care of it.” When I lean in to kiss his lips, I taste the salt of his tears.

One of the babies launches into a full-blown meltdown.

“Your daughter’s hungry,” Ian says, sniffing back tears as he returns to preparing bottles.

I’m blocking his view of the babies, so he can’t actually see who’s making all the fuss, but he recognizes her cry, which impresses the hell out of me. I’m still not sure half the time. You hear one baby cry, you’ve heard them all, right? Apparently not.

I walk over to the table, shrug off my suit jacket to hang it on the back of a chair, and then I unbuckle Lizzie and hold her to my chest. Immediately, she burrows her face against my white shirt, snuffling loudly. “There, there,” I say as I bounce her gently. “Lunch is coming.” I pat her back, and almost immediately she quiets down.

When Will joins in, I cradle Lizzie in one arm so I have a free hand to bounce Will’s seat. That seems to do the trick because his tears stop.

“God, that’s sexy,” Ian says as he brings the bottles to the table.

“What is?”

“You are.” He hands me one of the bottles and sets the other one on the table so he can extricate Will from his baby seat. “You’re a baby whisperer. They respond to you so well. It must be your deep voice. It makes me swoon, too.”

We carry the babies into the living room so we can sit on the sofa, side by side, and relax while we feed them.

Ian kicks off his sneakers and rests his stocking feet on the coffee table. Then he leans his head on my shoulder. He’s quiet as he watches Will drink his formula.

My mind is still fixated on the note in my jacket pocket. I’m furious at whoever sent it. It had to be someone from Ian’s past. He’s right—who else would have access to photos of him as a young child? But surely, whoever it is realizes they can’t physically or financially hurt Ian. Embarrass him, perhaps. Humiliate him. Bring back a lot of painful memories, yes. But blackmailing him will do them no good.

He’s not going to meet their demands. I won’t let him. If he gives in to them now, they’ll just keep coming back for more. No. He’s not going to pay them a penny. I’m going to find whoever did this and put a stop to the harassment.

“I need to call your parents,” I say as I throw a burp cloth over my shoulder so I can burp Lizzie. We’ve got a regular supply of burp cloths all over the house now, stacked on every table, every piece of furniture. I pat her back firmly, and she obliges me with a loud burp.

“They’ll be furious,” Ian says.

“I know. But I still need to talk to them. They probably remember more about your birth mom than anyone. They can give me the information I need to track her down.”

“Assuming she’s still alive.”

“Right. In light of that message you received, I’m guessing she is.”

Ian props Will up, supporting him with one hand while he pats our son’s back. “When I look at these babies, I can’t imagine how a parent could possibly neglect their own child.” After Will lets out a loud burp, Ian resumes feeding him.

A few minutes later, there’s a brisk knock at the back door.

I rise from the couch, holding Lizzie in the crook of one arm. “That must be Kimi. I’ll be right back.”

“You can leave Lizzie with me, if you want. I can feed them both.”

“That’s okay. I can walk and chew gum at the same time.”

As I leave the living room, Ian chuckles. “Show off.”

Sure enough, it is Kimi at the back door. I invite her in.

Immediately, her gaze goes to Lizzie, who’s busy sucking on her bottle. “Oh, my God, she’s so cute!” Then she gets serious as she returns her attention to me. “I just forwarded a clip of the video surveillance footage to your phone. It’s unclear who put the envelope in the mailbox. Whoever it is, they’re wearing a pair of baggy sweatpants and a gray hoodie that covers their face.” She holds up her phone, showing me the clip. “They look to be of average height and average weight. No discernable features. I can’t even tell if it’s a man or a woman.”

I watch the entire clip. “Play it again.” Sure enough, there’s not much to go on. The person walked up to our house, so there’s no vehicle or license plate to trace. It’s impossible to tell anything about the person other than general size, which is useless. I’m guessing five-eight, using the mailbox post as a reference. “Thanks, Kimi.”

“Sorry, Mr. J. I know it’s not much to go on. I also did a search for news stories at the time Ian went into foster care, and I found an article about a woman named Rhonda Mitchell who lost custody of a four-year-old son. She was convicted of prostitution, drug possession, and child neglect. Her parental rights were eventually terminated, and she was sentenced to ten years in prison. The unnamed child was sent into the foster care system, and I couldn’t find anything on him after that. I forwarded you a link to the article. I couldn’t find an obituary on this Mitchell woman, so I’m guessing she could still be alive.”

“Thanks. See what else you can dig up on her—a current address or place of employment would be great. I’m going to go see Ian’s parents tonight to find out what they know about his birth mother. I’m hoping they can fill in some of the details.”

Kimi reaches out to gently brush Lizzie’s hair. “It was hard reading that news article, thinking it might have been Ian they were writing about. The kid was described as malnourished and gaunt. If it really is him, it’s amazing he turned out so well.”

“That’s not even the worst part of it,” Ian says from the kitchen doorway behind us.

I turn to see him standing there, holding Will in the crook of one arm while he holds the baby’s bottle in his free hand.

“The credit goes to the Alexanders. They made sure I had everything I needed—the best therapists, doctors. Everything. They had infinite patience with me. It was exactly what I needed.” His expression seems flat, a bit detached.

Kimi flashes her gaze up at me. “I’ll get back to work now and leave you guys alone.” She catches my eye for a moment. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.” And then she lets herself out.

Both babies are done with their bottles, and now that their bellies are full, they’re sleepy. It seems that’s all they do—eat and sleep, rinse and repeat. We carry them upstairs to our bedroom to change their diapers and lay them in their bassinettes.

Ian sits at the foot of our bed and watches over the babies as they doze off for an afternoon nap.

I sit beside him, and when I put my arm around him, he leans into me, resting his head on my shoulder. “I’m going to ask your parents if I can come over tonight to talk to them about your birth mother. Do you want to—”

“Yes! Of course, I’m coming. It’ll be nice to see them, and I know they’ll want to see the babies.”

I head downstairs to call Ian’s mother. Ruth answers almost immediately, but I can tell she’s on the move.

“Hi, Tyler.” She sounds breathless. “What’s up? Sorry, I just left one meeting, and I’m on my way to another.”

“Will you and Martin be home this evening? There’s something Ian and I need to discuss with you.”

“Yes. Why don’t you guys come for dinner? Layla and Jason are coming this evening, too. It’ll be nice to have the whole family together. And of course we can’t wait to see the babies again. How about six-thirty?”

“Sounds great. We’ll be there.”

“Tyler? Is everything okay?”

I know she and Martin worry about Ian. They’re afraid something will happen to undo all the progress he’s made. “Everything’s fine—Ian’s fine. But there is a matter we need your help with. We’ll see you tonight.”

After ending the call, I head back upstairs to find Ian stretched out on our bed, his arms wrapped around my pillow.

He might actually be asleep, so I’m quiet as I sit on the edge of the bed and wait to see if he stirs. He doesn’t make any sounds, but I see his body tensing. “Ian?”

There’s no response.

He’s stress-sleeping. I’ve learned this is his way of blocking out whatever’s bothering him. I turn off the light in the room and lie down next to him. Research on Rhonda Mitchell—if indeed she’s who we think she is—can wait. Right now, this is where I need to be.

I lie against him, spooning him from behind. My arm goes around his waist, and I pull him in tight against me. He makes a sleepy sound and sighs when I press my lips to the back of his head. When he links our fingers together, I realize he’s not actually asleep. He’s just in classic Ian avoidance mode.

“Your mom invited us to dinner tonight at 6:30. Your sister and Jason will be there, too.”

He makes a noncommittal sound.

“Please try not to worry,” I tell him. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about.” His voice is muffled by his pillow.

“Then who?”

“Our babies. I keep imagining them in the same situation I was raised in.” He shudders.

I tighten my hold on him. “That will never happen.”

“I don’t understand how anyone could do that to a child—leave them alone for hours at a time, in the dark, with little to no food, nothing but water to drink.” His voice breaks. “They’re so helpless.”

“Shh.” I kiss his shoulder before pressing my nose into the crook of his neck and breathing in his scent. When I trail soft kisses along his sensitive neck, he groans quietly.

I’ll never let anyone hurt my family.

I lie beside Ian for a good part of the afternoon, my arm securely around his waist in an effort to reassure him he’s not alone. The emotional scars from his early childhood run deep. Even though the Alexanders gave him all the love and acceptance a child could need, those wounds still lurk in his psyche. It doesn’t take much to bring the nightmares back. The fear of being trapped, of being alone in the dark, of being hungry. He remembers what it felt like to be hungry. It boggles my mind that someone with his resources could harbor such basic fears. As his husband, my job is to make him feel safe. Secure. Loved.

I try not to dwell too much on the horrors of his past because when I do, my anger gets the best of me. And I won’t be any good to Ian if my emotions are tied up in knots.

I’m so warm and comfortable that I end up dozing off for a while. It’s not until Ian stirs that I wake up.

“Looks like nap time is over,” he says as he sits up with a groan. “I’m coming, buddy.”

I sit up, too, and lean against the headboard as I watch Ian pick up our son and cradle him in his arms. He pats Will’s back and bounces him gently as he presses his lips to the baby’s forehead. “Who’s Daddy’s sweet boy?” he croons softly.

My chest tightens at the sight of the two of them, and I’m overwhelmed with emotion.

I’m a father.

We both are.

And we’re responsible for these two tiny lives.

I never dreamed I could have this in my life, and I owe it all to Ian.