The Fifth Floor (28 page)

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey. I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“You didn’t.”

We began to walk.

“I just came by for her birthday,” I said.

“I know. Nicole told me.”

I glanced over, but Rachel was looking straight ahead.

“Told you what?” I said.

“She told me about you guys. How you’d go out to lunch on the day after.”

“She told you that, huh?”

“Yes, Michael, she did. She told me it was one of the treasured things in her life.”

I nodded and kept my head down. Rachel slipped an arm around my waist. I pulled her close and we kept walking.

“Everything turn out okay with Kincaid?” I said.

“Everything turned out just fine.”

“Thanks for trusting me,” I said.

She stopped and kissed me on the cheek. A soft breeze pushed us out of the graveyard and down Clark Street. I closed my eyes and let the sun warm my face. Chicago’s winter had finally broken. For the first time in a long time, it seemed like spring was going to happen.

“You like puppies?” I said, and opened my eyes.

Rachel smiled and nodded. I stopped again and considered this beautiful woman who could say so much, sometimes by saying nothing at all. I lifted her chin and kissed her on the lips. We held each other for a moment and let the world fall away. Then we walked as far as the Gingerman Tavern. We stopped there and ordered a couple of beers. They were cold and tasted good. We held hands, under the table, and talked about the future. Finally, after a while, it was time to go home.

I don’t know why I needed to know. But I did. Call it the Oedipus that exists in all of us.

It was early on a Thursday morning, a little more than two months after Janet Woods had left town with her daughter. Rachel Swenson was asleep beside me, breath barely audible. I slipped out of bed, into my living room, and picked up the phone. An hour later, I had the piece of paper I needed in my hands. Taylor Woods’ birth certificate. According to the county’s Bureau of Vital Records, she was actually baptized Taylor Collins, Janet’s maiden name, on January 25, 1992. That meant Taylor was sixteen years old. Not fourteen as she and her mother claimed. It also meant Janet might never have terminated the pregnancy she told me about when I agreed to take her on as a client. And that Taylor Woods might very well be my daughter.

I heard Rachel stirring in the bedroom, folded up the birth certificate, and pushed it into the deepest part of a bottom drawer. I wanted to know. Now I did. Like Oedipus, however, I had no idea where that knowledge might lead. Or whether I was ready for the journey.