Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 77120 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77120 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
But I can’t stop.
I scroll farther. Obituaries. Facebook pages. A wedding announcement that lists her as a bridesmaid in someone else’s perfect day.
I wonder if she ever told anyone she had a kid.
I wonder if she ever thought about me.
She’d be too old to be working as a showgirl still.
Did she ever get married, have more children?
I could have brothers and sisters out there that I don’t even know about.
Funny how this never bothered me before.
I’ve never needed to find her.
Not once.
Growing up, I had everything that mattered. My dad—steady, protective, a little rough around the edges but always there—and my mom, who adopted me when I was two and never once made me feel like anything but hers.
They gave me a good life. A real one.
So no, I didn’t spend my childhood wondering about Francine Stokes, the showgirl who gave me up without a backward glance. She was just a name in a story that stopped mattering once my mom—my real mom—stepped in and filled the void.
But then Ralph Normandy happened.
And everything changed.
It wasn’t the actual shooting. It wasn’t the blood. It wasn’t the life I watched drain out of his body.
It was what came after. The numbness. The knowledge that a life ended because of me.
The slow, crawling fear that the whole thing could have gone a different way.
Angie could be dead. Jason could be dead. Tabitha could be dead.
I could be dead.
And now my birth mother is on my mind.
It doesn’t feel like a hole, exactly. More like a locked door I’ve never dared to open…until now.
Now I need to know.
Not because I’m angry. Not because I’m trying to replace anyone. I couldn’t if I tried.
I just want to see the face I inherited.
To hear the voice that gave me my name.
To find out if she’s still out there.
Or if she’s not.
I narrow my search.
Too many dead ends, stage names, blurry photos. But eventually, I start to connect dots—old show rosters, employment records, a dancer’s union listing that hasn’t been updated in years.
Then I find it. A public records link to a woman named Francine L. Stokes, age sixty-one, living just outside Palm Springs.
No social media. No website. Just a mailing address, a phone number, and a vague mention of a floral design business that may or may not still exist.
My heart’s beating too fast. I try to tell myself it’s probably not her. Could be someone with the same name. A coincidence.
But I know better.
There’s a photo attached to a decades-old article—some fluff piece about a Vegas revue closing down. She’s in the center of the lineup, smiling wide in sequins and feathers, and even through the stage makeup, I see it. The shape of her nose. The curve of her mouth. So like my own.
It’s her.
I stare at the screen for a long time. I don’t know what I would say to her. Or what I’d even want her to say back.
Maybe nothing.
Maybe everything.
I write the address and phone number in the notes app on my phone and then close the app as if I’m guarding a secret.
Because now I know where she is.
After the wedding, I’ll find her.
And maybe she’ll be the puzzle piece that’s missing in my life right now.
Twenty-One
Tabitha
The vibe is casual but still impossibly perfect—like everything just happened to fall into place, even though I know it took a team of professionals and a terrifying budget to make it look this effortless.
The rehearsal dinner is set up behind the ranch house, just off the redwood patio. The sky is turning soft with that pinkish-orange tint the Western Slope does so well, and the string lights overhead flicker on. Mason jars filled with wildflowers sit on the cocktail tables.
The servers float around with trays balanced in one hand, offering appetizers that somehow manage to be both fancy and ranch appropriate. I take a pulled pork slider on a brioche bun and try not to devour it in one bite. There are skewers of grilled peaches and beef, little phyllo cups filled with something creamy and garlicky, and deviled eggs topped with smoked trout.
Stephen is late. Not that I mind. This is a wedding date. Nothing more. If he doesn’t show, my heart won’t break.
Everyone’s milling around, wineglasses in hand, laughing easily, and I keep thinking—this is the rehearsal. Not even the real thing. Just the warm-up. And it’s already the nicest event I’ve ever been to.
I sip my drink.
Henry looks gorgeous, of course.
He’s wearing black jeans, black cowboy boots, and a white button-down open at the neck. He doesn’t have much chest hair—just a few scattered in light brown. Funny that I’m seeing more of his chest tonight than I saw when we fucked in the barn.
He was fully clothed except for his open fly.
God…
For a moment, I regret inviting Stephen. But it was for the best. Henry and I…