The Stolen Identity (The Sydney Harbour Hospital Series Book 7) Page 3

  He was supposed to be enjoying his retirement with the love of his life by his side. Instead, he was forced to go solo, taking comfort from his friends. Morgan knew firsthand how much friends could fall short. No matter how close and how loyal, nothing could replace family, and in particular, a beloved spouse.

  A fresh wave of sadness went through her. She needed to talk to her dad, reconnect with him; reassure herself he was all right. Pushing off the couch, she padded across the living room and into the corridor. Though the phone was cordless, the base and answering machine were all in one and stood on the table in the hall. Picking up the handset, she dialed her father’s number.

  The last couple of times she’d tried, the call had gone through to his answering machine and this time was no different. Listening to him apologize for missing the call and asking the caller to leave a message, she blinked back a sudden rush of tears.

  It had been far too long since she’d seen him. More than three months, at least. She’d gone home for the long weekend in October, but at Christmas she’d been busy at work and hadn’t made it back. It was time to request some days off and make it a priority to visit.

  After leaving another message requesting that he call her, and finishing with a murmured hope that he was all right, Morgan ended the call and returned the handset to the base. Her only comfort was that he’d most definitely make contact with her on the anniversary of her mother’s death. He might have forgotten to call her on her birthday, but there was no way he’d forget that date. She was sure of it.

  * * *

  He stared at the calendar on the wall near the fridge and frowned at the asterisk marked on the date that was three days away. He’d noticed it the first time he’d turned his attention to the calendar, but even then, it hadn’t made sense. The date held no significance to him and yet it had been marked so it stood out among the other thirty-one days in the month. It had to mean something. It concerned him that he didn’t know what it was.

  He’d been lucky with Morgan’s birthday. It had been clearly marked on the tenth. He hadn’t risked a phone call, but he’d made sure to send her a card. He’d taken it down to the post office and then discovered it would take three or four days to arrive. He’d forgotten how long mail took in the country. She would receive it late, but at least she’d be satisfied he’d remembered. That was all that mattered.

  * * *

  Morgan’s phone buzzed, indicating she’d received a new email. She pulled the cell out of her uniform pocket. She’d been waiting all day for her dad to call. It was the anniversary of her mother’s death. He always called her on the seventeenth of January. It didn’t matter where she was.

  But Morgan was halfway through her shift and she still hadn’t heard from him and he hadn’t returned her calls, despite her messages. All she’d received was a brief email apologizing for the fact he’d missed her the last few times she’d called. There had been no other explanation, only an assurance that he was fine.

  Sliding open her phone, she quickly went to her mail account and clicked on the new message from her dad.

  Hi Morgan, thinking of you. Love Dad.

  She stared at the brief message in consternation and read the words again. Okay, so the tone was somewhat somber and respectful, but he hadn’t made any mention of her mom. They’d both agreed years ago to accept the tragedy for what it was and forever keep Judith O’Brien in their thoughts and in their hearts. They wanted to be able to speak of her freely, to acknowledge the impact she’d had on their lives. It was the anniversary of her mother’s death and her dad hadn’t even mentioned her by name.

  That was really odd. He couldn’t be well. Either that, or he wasn’t thinking right. Perhaps he’d fallen and knocked his head and hadn’t told her about it. Knowing her father, he would have brushed himself off and continued on his way. He wouldn’t have gone to a doctor. He could have concussion, or a delayed reaction, a bleed upon the brain…

  With an impatient sound in the back of her throat, she forced a halt to her increasingly frantic thoughts. Her dad was fine. He’d even told her so. Still, something was definitely off. First the card that hadn’t been written in his usual handwriting, now this weird email. Coupled with the fact she’d been unable to make phone contact with him for weeks had her feeling more than a bit concerned.

  She was glad she’d followed through on her earlier plan to take some annual leave. Tomorrow morning she’d catch the train to Armidale and hopefully put her mind at ease. On an impulse, she decided not to tell her father. It would be a nice surprise. They could spend a couple of weeks together, catching up, reconnecting – sharing memories of the past. It would be pleasant and relaxing and the weather would be great. Summer in the beautiful New England area wasn’t difficult to take.

  Feeling better, she dropped the phone back into her pocket. She’d call her dad tonight and make sure he was doing okay and then she’d pack her bags. Pushing open the door to the birthing suite, she flashed a smile at her colleague.

  “You can take a break, Georgie. I’ll take it from here.”

  * * *

  For the second time, he listened to the message on the answering machine and all of a sudden the asterisk on the calendar made sense. Morgan had called, talking about her mother and the anniversary of the woman’sdeath. Like she had the previous times, she asked if he was okay.

  Damn! He’d sent her an email earlier that day, but had it said enough? He didn’t know. Her voice on the answering machine held plenty of concern. He needed to alleviate her worries. It was time to tell her about the trip he’d been planning…

  CHAPTER FOUR

  There was only one train daily from Sydney to Armidale and it was just after six in the evening when it finally eased into the station. Morgan gathered her things and stepped out onto the platform. She breathed in the fresh country air and looked around her.

  The quiet station building had been erected in 1883 and was constructed of rendered brick with a pavilion at each end. The entrance was flanked by a wide porch with cast iron columns decorated with filigree detailing.

  The building reminded Morgan of an earlier time, a time in history when grand structures were built to last. The train station was a prime example of that and was a source of pride for the university town.

  Though it was early evening, with the shift to daylight savings time, the sun wouldn’t set for another hour. Plenty of time to make her way to 29 Butler Street. Anticipation rushed through her. She couldn’t wait to see her father.

  After collecting her luggage from the end of the platform, she made her way from the station to the taxi rank. One disadvantage of keeping her visit a surprise was that there was no one waiting to meet her. Still, it was only a short cab ride from there to her childhood home. Not much of an inconvenience.

  Looking up, she noticed storm clouds gathering in the east. She couldn’t remember from which direction Armidale got most of its rain, but she hoped the cool breeze that blew around her bare legs would blow the storm away. She hated storms, especially at night.

  There were two cabs waiting at the taxi rank and both were already filling with passengers. Morgan came to a halt and looked from one cab to the other in growing dismay.

  “Are there only two of you available?” she asked the nearest driver who was helping an elderly lady into the back seat.

  “Yes, and I’m afraid we don’t have anyone else to call. Bob Tremaine’s broken his leg and is out of action for six weeks and Dorothy Windsor is down with bronchitis. In the middle of summer. Unbelievable, but that’s the truth.” The driver shook his head slowly back and forth, his longish gray hair lifting with the movement.

  Morgan kept calm. There was no need for panic. She could wait for the cabs to deliver their passengers and return. She suggested as much to the driver.

  “That’s fine, but you could be waiting quite awhile.” He nodded toward his elderly passenger. “Elsie’s going all the way across town. It’ll probably take me an hour to get the
re and back.” He indicated the other driver with his chin. “Pete’s heading downtown and then he’s off on a break. He’ll probably be back before me, but I wouldn’t count on it.”

  Morgan looked from one man to the other. Pete was loading heavy suitcases into his trunk.

  “An hour? Do you really think it will take that long?” she asked, her voice tinged with desperation.

  “Give or take,” the driver replied. “Pete might make it back within forty-five minutes, but then again, he might not.”

  “And there’s no one else you can call?” she asked, thinking of the queue of taxis at Central Station that often extended as far as the eye could see.

  “No, I’m sorry. It’s only Pete and I on until midnight.”

  Morgan heaved a quiet sigh and set her bags down at her feet. She supposed she could call her father. He’d be more than happy to come and collect her. But she wanted to surprise him. To knock on his door and have him open it and stammer and sputter in surprise. He’d envelop her in a bear hug and drag her inside, all the time demanding to know where she’d come from and why she hadn’t let him know ahead of time.

  She loved to surprise him like that and it had been far too long since she’d done it. She didn’t want to spoil things by calling him. No, she could simply walk to Butler Street. She’d done it in the past. It wasn’t that far. Not really.

  Besides, the night was soft and balmy and the air smelled heavenly of orange blossom. She couldn’t see where it was coming from and there were only two lone pencil pines outside the station, but there had to be a Murraya bush, or something like it, nearby.

  “What did you decide to do? Do you want one of us to come back for you?”

  Morgan focused her attention on the driver. She still had the best part of an hour before sunset and if she hurried, she’d make it home well before dark. She flashed the driver a smile.

  “Thank you for your offer, but I think I’ll walk. I don’t have too far to go and it’s a lovely evening. I might as well enjoy the country air.”

  “Are you from the city, then?” the driver asked, obvious curiosity on his face.

  “Yes. No. Well, kind of. I’ve lived in Sydney for the past nine years, but I was born and bred in Armidale and I went to college here. My dad still lives here.” She indicated her luggage. “That’s why I’m here. I’m paying him a surprise visit.”

  The driver smiled. “Ah, now I understand why there’s nobody here to meet you. I wish I could help you out.”

  “That’s all right,” Morgan replied. “I don’t mind the walk.” With that, she turned away and started down the road.

  “Hey, what’s your dad’s name?”

  Morgan paused and turned back to face the driver. “Rex O’Brien. He lives on Butler Street. Do you know him?”

  “Rex? Of course I know him! He was my lawyer for many years. How is he? I haven’t seen him around lately.”

  “He’s fine. Busy gardening and golfing and all the other things he’s filled his life with since his retirement.”

  “Good. I’m glad. He’s a good bloke. Tell him Burt Mitchell says hello.”

  Morgan nodded. “Thanks, Burt. I will.”

  And with that, she continued in the direction of home.

  * * *

  Detective Sergeant Colt Barrington turned into the street that led away from the railway station, his thoughts focused on what he might have for dinner. Though he came from a large family and had done his fair share of preparing the evening meal, cooking wasn’t something he necessarily enjoyed and he avoided it as much as he could.

  But the simple truth was, he was all out of pasta and his salad things consisted of half a head of wilted lettuce and a handful of cherry tomatoes that had seen the inside of his fridge for far too long. Perhaps he could rustle up some leftover ham and he was sure there was still a bag of grated cheese in the dairy drawer of his fridge. He’d settle for toasted sandwiches. Short of stopping by the supermarket and replenishing his supplies, that was the best he could do.

  A woman was walking ahead of him on the sidewalk, dragging two suitcases. She must have been a passenger on the train that just arrived from Sydney. He wondered why she hadn’t caught a cab. Perhaps she lived nearby?

  Despite the warm evening, she wore jeans. The denim hugged a curvy butt that ended in a pair of long, slim legs. Black dress boots sporting three-inch heels added to her above-average height.

  His gaze drifted upwards, past the white T-shirt that was tucked neatly into her waistband. Wavy, honey-blond hair lifted and danced across her shoulders in the gentle summer breeze. He wondered who she was. Pressing his foot down on the accelerator, he decided to find out.

  * * *

  A late model Ford sedan pulled up alongside Morgan. After giving it a cursory glance, she ignored it and continued on her way. Already, her feet were killing her and she cursed the idiocy of wearing high-heeled boots. She hadn’t given any thought to transport from the station. She’d just assumed she’d be able to catch a cab. Most of the other times she’d visited, her father had been there to meet her and the few times she’d surprised him, she hadn’t had any difficulty finding a taxi.

  The driver of the car beside her suddenly beeped his horn. Morgan jumped. The sound was alarming in the quiet street. She looked up and down, but saw no sign of anyone else. She was alone with the stranger who, even now was putting the passenger side window down and leaning over the gear stick to speak to her.

  She’d lived in the city long enough to be wary of confrontations with unfamiliar men on an empty street and she kept her distance. She couldn’t see his face clearly through the shadows in the car, but his voice was deep and gentle – nothing like what she always imagined a serial killer’s voice might be. It floated over her, rich and mellow, like good red wine.

  “It looks like you’re struggling a little. Can I offer you a lift?”

  There was a genuine friendliness in his tone and what she could see of his features were warm and open. Something stirred in her memory and she wondered if she’d seen him before. She came home reasonably often to visit her father. Perhaps she’d seen the stranger downtown…

  Then again, she’d grown up and had gone to college here. She could have met him anywhere. He smiled again and she walked closer, bending down a little, so she could get a better look.

  Her heart pounded and she gasped in shock. Almost at the same time, an identical expression of surprise and recognition filled his handsome face.

  “M-Morgan O’Brien? Is that you?”

  “Colt Barrington! I-I didn’t expect to see you!” Heat flooded her face.

  “Likewise,” he replied with a grin. “I haven’t seen you since…” He shook his head slowly back and forth and then added. “It must be at least nine or ten years.”

  Her chest constricted and her throat went dry. “Ten years next month, in fact,” she managed.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, in the same casual, velvety voice, as if her reference to their last meeting meant nothing.

  “I… I’m visiting my father. He doesn’t know that I’m coming. He still lives here.”

  He nodded. “I remember.”

  Decade-old memories bombarded her and she wondered just what it was he remembered. Every second of those infinitesimal, magical moments in time had been seared into her brain. She’d graduated from college and moved to the city, but she’d never forgotten the dashingly sexy Colt Barrington and his oh-so-charming smile. How could she? He was the father of her aborted child.

  * * *

  Colt eyed the beautiful woman outside his unmarked squad car and tried his best to hold back the flood of memories. A decade was a long time. She’d done some growing up. At twenty, she’d been a stunner, tall and slender and with the body of an athlete. Now she was softer, curvier, fuller – incredibly feminine.

  Her large blue eyes dominated a face that had perfect proportions. Her tanned skin glowed with health and vitality and a sprinkling of freckles dotte
d her nose. Whatever she’d done over the past ten years had agreed with her. She looked even more beautiful than she had when they’d first met.

  “Get in. I’ll give you a lift,” he said, wanting to prolong their time together.

  Over the years, he’d forced her out of his mind. What they’d had once was over. But right here, in the gathering evening, with the smell of flowers in the air, he couldn’t help but wonder what might have happened if they’d tried harder, made different choices all those years ago.

  Had she thought of him over the years? Of the baby they’d made together?

  He made an impatient sound in the back of his throat. What the hell was he doing? No good would come of dredging up things best buried in the past. So what if his heart had been racing from the moment he recognized her? So what if a part of him wondered what might have been…

  “Okay. Th-thanks.”

  She sounded hesitant, but slowly leaned forward and opened the door. He came around her side and helped her into the car, before hefting her suitcases into the trunk.

  “Thanks,” she murmured a second time as he climbed back behind the wheel. She threw him the briefest of smiles.

  His breath caught. She was even more beautiful up close. The faintest smell of her perfume wafted toward him on the air. Steadfastly ignoring the way his pulse leaped at her nearness, he put the car into gear.

  Perhaps his offer of a lift wasn’t such a good idea? It was unsettling being so close to her again and having the chasm of a decade and a dead baby between them. All of a sudden he was grateful her father lived nearby and this would soon be over.

  “Is your dad still in Butler Street?”

  “Yes. You have a good memory.”

  She said it without inflection, but he wondered if she was thinking the same thing as he was. Reliving the gloriousness of their past and remembering the sad and sober way it ended. Not brave enough to broach the subject, he said instead, “I’m a detective. I’m paid to remember details like that.”