Page 53 of Deep (Chicago Underground 8)
“It’s from your mother.”
My breath stuttered, stopped. I stared at the pretty jade pendant as if it had suddenly come alive, a snake in her hand. “Why would you have that? You met her?”
The worry on her face answered me. “She gave it to me. I met her… She was a…”
“Don’t,” I said sharply. I knew what the odds were, a mother who had given away her child, a city full of danger and sin. And it explained how Shelly had met her, either through her network or at the shelter. My birth mother was a prostitute.
That part wasn’t particularly shocking. It wasn’t particularly hurtful.
No, the hurtful part was knowing that my mother had learned who I was, where I was, enough that she could pass something to me via Shelly—and still had opted not to meet me herself.
“Throw it away,” I said.
“Ella…”
“She didn’t give it to me herself, did she? She didn’t call me up, ask to meet me. She doesn’t care about me, so tell me—why should I care about her?”
Shelly’s lower lip trembled, and I felt bad for putting her in the middle of this. She had done nothing but protect me, but this felt like a betrayal. But I wasn’t the one putting her in the middle of this. My birth mother was, this faceless woman who wanted to give me a necklace instead of love.
“I almost did throw it away,” Shelly said, her voice almost pleading. “So many times. I wanted to. But then I couldn’t. The same way I can’t throw away the stones from my mother’s jewelry. Legacy is a powerful thing, Ella.”
The necklace wasn’t a legacy. It was a curse.
But it was my curse. I took the necklace, still warm from Shelly’s hand. And I walked away, unable to respond to her whispered apology, unable to answer Philip’s questioning expression.
Of course he didn’t accept my silence.
“What did she give you? A listening device?”
“God. Are you always so paranoid? How do you live like that?”
“Very well,” he said, not the least bit cowed.
I clenched the metal and small stone in my fist until it hurt. “Not everything is about you.”
“What is it about then?” he challenged.
Family. “Legacy.”
He smiled faintly. “I thought you said it wasn’t about me.”
And because he was being so cocky, because I wanted to tear him down a notch—because I thought he would shrink away from any real intimacy—I told him the truth. “It was my mother’s,” I said, and then realized what I’d done.
Too late, I realized I had exposed a weakness to a man who would exploit it.
A man of opportunity, he called himself.
Without another word I crossed the gravel driveway and climbed into the backseat. I folded my arms and stared straight ahead, impatient for him to join me. Being Philip, he took his time. He made me wait.
When he finally deigned to join me, he climbed into the seat facing me and shut the door.
The SUV didn’t move.
“You dislike it,” he said, his voice no longer smug, no longer challenging.
And only because of that could I tell him. “I hate it. If she wanted to meet me, to know me, she could have sent a message instead. A cell phone number. An email address. But this… this is, what? A pity gift?”
Philip said nothing.
