Darkmoon(51)

“Marie?” I asked incredulously, reaching for the photo. Connor surrendered it, and I stared down at the picture of the couple, attempting to see the cold and distant Marie I knew in the laughing face of the girl in the image. She was probably barely twenty in the photo, her face not as sharply angled as it was now, the chin rounder. But I recognized the dark, arched brows and the thin nose and the long, long lashes. Somehow, though, this girl was beautiful, whereas I’d never thought of Marie that way. Striking, yes, but sharp and almost hawklike, as if the passage of years had worn away all that youthful prettiness. “Okay,” I allowed at last. Then my heart seemed to drop a beat or two as I focused on the young man more closely. Was that…? “And the guy?” I asked, my voice casual. Too casual, I knew.

Connor’s gaze flickered up at me, and his eyes narrowed as he seemed to take in my expression. Then he said, “I don’t recognize him, but I think that’s your father. He’s around the right age, and Marie’s looking pretty friendly with him.”

That was true — she was leaning into the young man’s shoulder, a flirtatious glint in her eyes. And even though I’d been waiting all my life to know what my father looked like, now that the time had come, it was harder than I had thought it would be to stare down at that photo, make myself really study his face.

He was handsome, with sooty hair almost as dark as Marie’s, and fine high cheekbones and a nice strong chin. I could see why my mother had fallen for him. But that still didn’t explain why he had left Marie and gone to California, apparently intent on seducing the wayward McAllister daughter who had gone there to escape the heavy expectations of her family.

“I can see it a little,” Connor said, glancing from the photo to me and back again. “Something in the shape of your face. And your hair color is almost exactly the same.”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to dwell on those similarities, because I had a feeling I’d start obsessing about which feature I’d gotten from which parent, and we really didn’t have time for that. Turning to the matter at hand, I asked, “But why would she leave it here?”

“I don’t know. Maybe for you to find? Obviously the whole thing is still painful to her, or she wouldn’t have treated you the way she did. Does. Whatever.” He began to shrug and then seemed to stop himself, as if he realized that such an off-hand gesture didn’t really fit the seriousness of the situation.

Even so, I gave him a startled glance. Yes, I’d thought the same thing myself, but I hadn’t really expected Connor to agree with me. He’d always seemed fairly quick to defend Marie’s behavior.

“I saw it,” he said. “I didn’t like it, and it wasn’t really overt enough for me to call Marie on it. And then when we discovered who your father really was, it made total sense.”

I nodded, then stared down at the photo once again. It was so odd — for most of my life my father had been a specter, a shadow, someone with no name, no identity. Now I knew his name was Andre Wilcox, and this was what he’d looked like, once upon a time. Better than nothing, but it still didn’t help us get any closer to discovering why he’d gone to California all those years ago and what had happened to him, never mind whether finding any of those answers would get us any nearer to breaking the Wilcox curse.

“And she left this…why? As a clue?”

“Maybe. Or maybe she wanted to look at it one last time before she left.”

“Left for where? I mean, where would Marie even go?”

“I have no idea,” Connor said grimly. “So I’m going to call the only person who might.”



* * *



Sitting in Marie’s living room, Lucas appeared stunned as he glanced from me to Connor, his gaze finally coming to rest on the photo where it sat on the coffee table. Then he reached over and picked up the snapshot, eyes narrowing. “Andre Wilcox. Jesus Christ.”

“So you knew him?” I asked.

“Well, he was my cousin — okay, we’re all cousins, in one way or another — so yes, I knew him. Not well, since that branch of the family was a little standoffish, and he was about seven years older than I was. Enough that we weren’t in the same subgroup of kids who hung out together at family parties, that sort of thing.”

Lucas shifted on the couch, the photo still in his hand. Again I was struck by how he had to be about the least warlock-looking warlock I’d ever met, with his expensive jeans and golf shirt and polished loafers. He’d probably come straight from the country club when we called.