When the calls started from the reporters the following day, and they gathered outside the house in a feeding frenzy, Corinne pulled the blinds in the bedroom and sat on the bed to watch the news. J. B. MacIntyre, Ken’s rival at WIGH, reported from the Wake County Courthouse that Timothy Gleason had been sentenced to life in prison. An hour later, she watched him report from in front of her house.

“Ironically,” he said, “the latest development in the Timothy Gleason case led authorities to the home of WIGH reporter Ken Carmichael.”

Corinne hated J.B.’s voice. He dramatized everything. He could turn a pimple into a life-threatening event.

“Eve Bailey Elliott, aka CeeCee Wilkes, was arrested last night at the home Carmichael shares with his fiancée, Corinne Elliott,” J.B. said. “Eve Elliott admitted that she kidnapped Russell’s newborn infant in 1977 and raised her as her own daughter.”

A picture of Corinne, taken from a WIGH award dinner she and Ken had attended and which Ken kept on his desk at work, appeared on the screen, followed by a picture of Genevieve Russell, the same one the media had been flashing for days. “Elliott had publicly announced her role in the kidnapping shortly before taking refuge at the Carmichael residence with her husband and daughter.”

Refuge? Corinne thought. Hardly.

“No comment yet from Irving Russell, nor from his other daughter, Vivian,” J.B. said. “And Corinne Elliott—aka, baby girl Russell—has so far refused to speak with us.”

Would Irving Russell call her? she wondered. She had more parents than ever before, and yet she felt as though she had none. Eve and Jack seemed like strangers to her. Here she was, barricaded in her bedroom, listening to van doors slide open and closed on the street, while reporters and camera crews chattered outside her front door. She felt trapped. She missed Ken. He was right: she needed him. He was a buffer between herself and the world.

She didn’t leave the house for two days. She didn’t have to call in to work. They called her to ask if she needed time off, and she supposed they were glad to give it to her. She was the object of gossip. She didn’t want to face people who would be wondering about her parentage when she felt so uncertain of it herself.

She was sitting at her computer in the den when the phone rang for what must have been the thousandth time in the past couple of days. She checked the caller ID display and felt overjoyed to see Ken’s number illuminated on the screen. She clicked the talk button.

“Please come home,” she said, instead of hello. “I’m sorry I blew up.”

He hesitated. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I can’t believe everything that was dumped on you the past few days and I just made things worse.”

“By telling me the truth.”

“That I should have told you years ago.”

“I don’t know what to do, Ken,” she said. “The reporters are hounding me.”

“Don’t answer the phone or the door and keep the blinds closed.”

“I am.”

“I’m coming home,” he said. “I don’t want you there alone.”

“Okay.” She was relieved. She would let him take care of her.

He paused. “Your mother hurt you even worse than I thought,” he said finally.

“I’m so angry at her,” Corinne said. “I can’t stand how angry I feel. I want to throw something through the window.”

“I don’t blame you,” he said. “She kept you from your real family. Has Russell tried to get in touch with you?”

“No. Unless he’s been one of the zillion calls I’ve ignored this afternoon.”

“You know what I did when I left the other day?” Ken asked.

“What?”

“I went to my lawyer and reactivated the divorce proceedings. And I called Felicia to let her know.”

She smiled. “Good,” she said.

He hesitated only a moment. “Corinne,” he said. “Will you marry me?”

Ken screened every phone call that came into the house. She didn’t want to talk to her father—to Jack. She’d started out calling him Jack as a child; now she reverted to it. She didn’t want to hear him plead with her to visit her mother in jail. She wasn’t even ready to picture her mother there. Was she behind bars? In a tiny, cold cell? She didn’t want to think about it.

The call Corinne was truly waiting for—with both dread and longing—came in an unexpected form.

As usual, Ken answered the phone, but this time he handed it over to her. “It’s Irving Russell’s attorney,” he said.

She took the phone from him, her hand suddenly damp with perspiration.

“This is Corinne Elliott,” she said.

“My name is Brian Charles.” He spoke with a quick, sharp force. “I represent Irving Russell. President Russell would like to know if you’d agree to a DNA test to determine if you’re his daughter or not.”

She felt an instant of betrayal, a feeling that was becoming all too familiar. Was Russell hoping she was not his? Maybe he didn’t want to deal with the messiness she’d bring into his life.

“Of course he’s very much hoping that you do prove to be his kidnapped daughter,” Brian Charles said when she didn’t respond. “But I’m sure you understand his need to be certain about this. It’s best for you to be certain as well.”

“Yes,” she said. “I understand. What do I have to do?”

“We can arrange for the test to be done through your family physician, if that’s agreeable to you.”

Was it? Could there be a problem with doing it through her doctor? Could they have gotten to her doctor in some way? Maybe paid him off to do…what? She felt like a child who no longer knew what was good for her and what was not.

She covered the receiver with her hand and spoke to Ken.

“They want me to take a DNA test with my regular doctor,” she said. “Is that okay?”

Ken nodded. “It’s a good idea,” he said. “You need to be sure. Who knows what the truth is when it comes to your mother?”

She lifted the receiver again. “Yes, that’s fine,” she said.

“All right. If you give me his number, I’ll get in touch with him and tell him to expect your call. We’ll handle any cost involved, of course.”

Ken drove her to the doctor that afternoon. She wore her sunglasses in the car as they passed the reporters lining their driveway. She suddenly understood why people wore dark glasses in situations like this. Her eyes were no longer bloodshot from crying, but she didn’t want to be seen. She didn’t want to risk eye contact with any of the hungry reporters. Ken was usually one of them, she realized. He’d get a scoop, then come home and boast about it. He’d boasted about this very case.

“I’m sorry you…” She couldn’t think of a way to give words to her thoughts. “You lost out on this story.”

He laughed. “Big-time,” he said. “I’ve become part of the story.” He smiled at her; he’d been so kind since coming home. “Don’t give it a thought, okay?” he said. “What’s going on with you is more important than whether I win the Rosedale or not.”

They were at a stoplight, cars tight on either side of them, and she felt panic setting in. Her heart beat fast and hard enough that she could feel it in her throat. She gulped air, trying to keep her breathing even.

“We’re almost there.” Ken glanced at her. He knew she was struggling. “It’s just a couple of blocks away.”

She was relieved when they started moving again. Ken drove into the parking lot of the medical building and groaned when he spotted a woman standing near the entrance.

“There’s a snitch in your doctor’s office,” he said grimly as he took the keys out of the ignition. “Don’t get out.”

He came around to her side of the car, his eye on the woman standing at the office door.

“Come on.” He opened the car door, taking her arm as she stepped out. “Stay close.”

The woman approached them. She was older than Corinne had first thought. Her blond hair was brassy, and thick makeup covered acne scars.

“Back off, Liz,” Ken said. Apparently she was a colleague. She ignored his direction.

“Corinne,” she said, walking toward her, notepad at the ready, “what are you here for? Is it for a DNA test?”

“Don’t answer her,” Ken said. He walked so quickly that her own legs, wooden and suddenly too long for her body, nearly tripped her. “We have no comment,” Ken said. He pushed open the door and guided Corinne into the foyer. “Don’t even think about it,” he said to the reporter as she started to follow them in. This time she listened, and Corinne was relieved when the door closed safely behind her.

No one mentioned why she was there. She didn’t even see the doctor, only a nurse who had the good sense to pretend taking a sample of cells from the inside of Corinne’s cheek was an everyday event. Corinne was grateful for her matter-of-fact demeanor.

“How long ’til we get the results?” Ken asked, when the nurse had finished.

“About a week,” she said.

And then what? Corinne wondered as the nurse wrote her name on the plastic container. Who would she be then?