Page 82 of Space Oddities

“Done.”

I give him the same throwaway email I used for my VPN and hang up to authorize another wire transfer.

I pace back and forth in front of the dealership’s glass storefront until Dale calls my name. “Mr. Kincaid?”

I nearly stumble, turning toward the door behind me. “Yes?”

His wary expression gives way to an awkward smile. “Your keys have been programmed.” He holds out a bag with five fobs inside.

I had extras keys made in case Trish ever gets pissed at me again. Or if she gets scared of her past and wants to run. Because until we figure this out, I’m pretty sure she will. And I need to be prepared.

“Thank you.” I take the bag from the guy. “Do you need my card to—”

“No, no.” Hands raised, the guy backs up into the open doorway. “We’ll send a bill. Your car is parked just around the corner.” He points behind me. “Have a nice day.” The door shuts, and through the glass I watch him walk back to his counter, throwing me guarded looks over his shoulder. I catch my reflection in the window and see my hair standing on end like a wild man’s. I refocus, and all the people shopping for cars inside are staring at me. Between the pacing, the talking, and gesturing, I must’ve given them quite a show.

I head over to the lot where my car is waiting and slide in, tossing the bag of keys on the passenger seat.

My phone pings with an email notification.

Pushing the ignition on so I don’t melt to death in my car, I scroll through all the attachments Ranos sent me.

The more I scroll, the more my heart hurts.

Not for me, but for the small, pale brunette staring back at me in the attached photos. There’s a picture of Trish from elementary school. A pigtailed girl with a crooked smile. Birth certificate with the father listed as ‘unknown.’ The missing person’s report for her mother. A copy of her grandparents’ double mortgage on their mobile home, followed by their death certificates. Another picture of Trish, this time from high school, her eyes already too wise for her years. School transcripts that depict a smart, gifted mind and the scholarships she earned. Community college bills. And finally, a promotional picture from a strip club of a nearly unrecognizable Trish, bent backwards by a pole, one leg pointing toward the ceiling, a sequined red bikini barely covering her breasts.

She’s beautiful in each. And I love her more with each new piece of information I read.

But it hurts that she felt too ashamed to tell me.

There’s also a picture of a handsome twenty-something guy with a younger Trish. It’s a selfie, with Trish kissing his cheek.

I already hate the guy, and I don’t know who he is.

Opening the next page, there’s another picture of the guy. This time he’s older, in a suit, and standing in front of a law firm. Mitchell & Watkins. Must be Chad Mitchell.

Sure enough, Ranos included another dossier, this one on Chad Mitchell, now a senior partner at a top Georgia law firm. The law firm his father founded. Father died three months ago of a stroke.

I call the number Ranos has listed for Mitchell. No answer, no voice message system. Figures. He probably won’t just talk if I get him on the phone anyway.

For some reason, Mitchell wants to keep the Trish situation a secret. It’s obvious they were romantically involved, if Ranos’ information is to be trusted. Apparently, sometime around when Trish was going to college and working at the strip club.

But after the judge accused her of stealing, Trish left town, and a few years later Mitchell married a prominent southern family’s daughter.

I dial the law firm’s number.

“Mitchell & Watkins Law Office, how may I direct your call?”

“I need to make an appointment with Chad Mitchell. As soon as possible.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Mitchell is out of town for a memorial banquet honoring his late father. He informed me he wouldn’t be taking any appointments today or tomorrow. I can get you on the schedule next week.”

Shit. A week won’t do. That’s after the wedding. After Trish leaves.

“I see. Thatisa shame.” My nostrils flare as I steel myself for what I’m about to do. “You see, I’m Ian Kincaid, andmyfather, United States Senator Richard Kincaid, asked me to personally speak with Mr. Mitchell regarding an urgent legal matter in Georgia that needs to be dealt with immediately.”

In the following silence, I imagine the receptionist running through the ramifications of putting off such an important prospective client. “If you could hold sir, I’ll just double-check.”

“Of course.” I settle my head back against my car seat. I’m slightly sick with myself.

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