Page 35 of Fake Dating My Billionaire Boss

Chapter 12

Bella

Now that Damian’s no longer breathing down my neck, I can tear open boxes and search through them at a faster pace. Unfortunately, the park I suggested is probably no more than a quarter mile away, so he and Bo will return in no time.

And then he’ll be back, griping and lurking and—

Oh, who am I kidding?

Ilikedhaving him breathe down my neck.

When he stood next to me, over by the window, I almost swooned. How is it that he managed to sound so attractive and alluring, talking about nothing but old glass? I wanted to fall against him, look up into his eyes, and say,“tell me more about these table-rolled glass windowpanes, please.”

Thankfully, I restrained myself.

Now he’s gone, and Bo’s not barking anymore, and I can really get into this search.

Because the more I think about it, the more I suspect that Fizzy is actually onto something.

He’s not spewing nonsensical conspiracy-theory stuff. Sure, he gets silly sometimes, with his blog articles. The one he wrote up about a large-scale government cover-up of sea monsters comes to mind. That was over the top. He did that for the clicks, I’m sure.

But he wouldn’t bring up a theory about my family unless he seriously thought there was something to it. It’s too private and personal, and he wouldn’t want to upset me for no reason.

And it really is interesting that he spotted my mom here, at this old factory building, seven years ago. She traveled all the way from California to upstate New York and didn't even tell me about the trip...

So, she was keeping a secret.

From her own daughter.

While she had an incurable, life-threatening disease.

Stomach cancer got the best of her four months later. Whatever she was doing here in town, it must have been very important.

She must have left that envelope inside the building. The only thing in here was the Historical Society stuff. She used to volunteer for the Historical Society, so in a way it makes sense that she’d think to bring an envelope to the museum. Maybe she gave it to whoever was working the desk that day… Or, maybe, she stashed it somewhere in the many displays.

That’s my hope—that she stashed it. And I know it’s Fizzy’s too.

I finish scrounging through a box of yellowed maps. No envelope. I toss the box aside without re-sealing it because, at this point, I don’t really care about the mess I’m making. I want to get through as many boxes as I can while I have this space to myself.

My search of the rest of the boxes in the pile is thorough but fruitless.

I hustle over to another stack of boxes and open one that’s off to the side. Inside there’s a pile of bubble-wrapped, flat, rectangular objects. I peel back the bubble wrapping on one of the packages and find a framed sepia-toned photograph.

Ah, yes. Damian said he’d packed up some photos. I even recognize the one in my hand. It caught my eye when I was a kid, and I accompanied my mother to one of her shifts here at the museum. In the photo, two workhorses nuzzle one another happily. I remember wondering if they were siblings or friends. Or were they in love and kissing, like my mom and dad sometimes did? To my little kid's mind, it was a fascinating puzzle to ponder.

I remember the photograph that used to be on display right next to this one, too. It interested me as well because it showed my great-grandparents on my father’s side, Theodore, and Elsa Sinclair.

I wonder…

I set the horse photo aside and pick up the next bubble-wrapped item. And when I peel back the wrapping, there it is--the photograph I remember. My great-grandfather and great-grandmother are young in the photo. Late twenties, maybe, or early thirties. Theodore is in overalls, holding a pitchfork. Elsa’s in a skirt that looks too big for her. She’s wearing a thick, leather men's belt cinched around her waist to keep the extra fabric bunched together. In one hand, she clutches the long handle of a shovel. The other end of the tool is buried in the pile of dirt near her ankle-high leather boots.

The caption beneath says:“Elsa and Theodore Sinclair. Proud new owners of ten acres of farmland.”There’s more to the caption, but the ink is smudged and faded, and I can’t read it. The date’s been rubbed off, too. Too bad.

I’m about to set it aside when my fingertips graze a bumpy surface at the back of the frame. I flip the frame over, and suddenly my eyes feel hot. My vision blurs.

Shoot. I’m crying.

The thick envelope from the photographs is right here, tucked into the photo frame, and it has my mother’s handwriting across it:“When found please send to Bella Sinclair.”The sight of my name, written in my mother’s hand like this, makes my heart squeeze in on itself. A lump as big as a baseball lodges in my throat.

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