Page 82 of Dying to Meet You

“Oh, I promise,” he said.

There’s a reason I have trust issues.

I continue to page through the ledger, watching other girls’ stories flying past as I search for Tim’s birth in early 1979.

And suddenly there he is.

1 February 1979—Baby boy—7 pounds, 7 ounces—to Miss L. Peoples.

An Aquarius, Natalie said. The irrelevant detail swims into my mind. I’m not a fan of astrology. It makes no sense that all the babies born on a cold February day in 1979 should have similar personalities.

But I have the chills even so. We’re all born under a sign, regardless of the position of the stars. Some of us are born into a family like the Wincotts and end up running the world. While some of us are born to Miss L. Peoples and are quietly adopted by another family.

Surely more than one baby boy was born in Portland, Maine, on that date. But I’m willing to bet that this baby boy was Tim. Why else would he care so much about the ledger?

I pull out my phone and take a photo of Tim’s page. And then I flip through to the end of the book. The ledger’s last record is from 1989. Then nothing. Marcus Wincott spent a few more years running the foundation before he retired. Then he lived on in the mansion for a few years until his death.

The building sat empty after that, a mansion only for the mice.

And possibly a ghost.

“Did you find what you needed?”

My chin snaps upward at the sound of the assistant’s voice, and I spot her in the doorway. “Yup! Almost done!” She turns away, even as my heart gallops.

I’ve overstayed my welcome. Quickly, I close the book and place it back into the lockbox. After tucking it in place in the cabinet, I carefully stack the rest of the materials into the archival box.

I’m all smiles when I emerge from Hank’s office, twenty minutes or so after I’d entered it.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Hank’s assistant asks.

“I absolutely did. You’ve been very helpful. Have a great weekend.”

She checks her watch. “It’s not long now.”

***

After snagging an outdoor table at a nearby café, I pull out my phone and begin composing a text to Jules the journalist.

Rowan: I think I found her.

But then I hesitate before sending it. Who is Jules, really? All I know about her is that she used to work with Tim. She didn’t even give me a business card—just a sticky note with her first name.

Is that weird? Or am I paranoid?

I switch to a browser and googleJules journalist Wall Street Journal.

Nothing.

She gave me so little to go on, possibly by design. On a whim, I googleJules journalist Timothy Kovak. And then the results load, and I let out a little gasp of rage that makes the hipsters at the next table look up from their falafel.

The first result is a wedding notice from 2006. For Jules and Tim.

They weremarried. And I am the worst judge of character who ever lived.

For a minute all I can do is seethe, and shuffle through all the clues I missed. Like when she’d mentioned Tim’s mother.I was over there offering to help clean out his place in New York.

Wait. Did he evenhavehis own place in New York? What if they were still married when I dated him? For a long moment I sit here, dumbstruck, wondering why I never learn.