Fatal Secrets. Barbara Phinney

thought he was, I’d rather not be a Christian at all.”

      She stopped chewing. The bitterness in his words bounced around their booth. She’d never heard such cold condemnation. What would her parents say to this?

      Suddenly, the ache of grief weighed down her heart. Her parents would have known the right answer. They were wonderfully compassionate. They’d taken her in twenty-one years ago, finding themselves with a small child after many years alone. It must have been hard for them to keep up with a busy little toddler.

      But enough of that. What could she say to Zane? He seemed so disappointed with God. How could she take that away?

      She couldn’t. Nor was it any of her business, no matter how sad it made her feel. With a sip of water, she swallowed the corn chip and hastened to change the subject. “You said you have a brother. Where are your parents?”

      “Dead. Both my birth parents and my adoptive ones. I was adopted shortly after I was born,” he told her tersely.

      “So what clues led you here?”

      “While I was living in upstate New York, I did a data search for the last name Kendall.” He spelled the name. “My adoptive mother only ever told me the last name and only after a good deal of pressure. She was afraid of my adoptive father.”

      His jaw had tightened again, she noticed.

      As if catching her curiosity, he cleared his throat and took a chip. “Anyway, I got a break once with some online photos from Westbrook University. So I decided to move here and set up my business.”

      He dipped a chip into the salsa. “The lead today turned out to be no good.”

      Their meals arrived and when the server left them, Kristin stared at her food.

      She snapped her attention back him, remembering why the name sounded familiar. “What did this Kendall guy study?”

      “Art, specializing in oils, I’m told. I don’t even know if he is my brother. He’s already left the area.”

      Kristin set down her glass of water. “There’s a painting in one of the lecture rooms that’s signed ‘Bobby Kendall’ with that same spelling. It could be his. It’s of Lindbergh Lake, about eighty miles from here. It’s this multiseasonal three-sectioned painting, so the artist would have needed to go there frequently to plan his work. Maybe he’s there now.”

      “I’ve checked everywhere.”

      “But there’s the Bob Marshall Wilderness Area nearby. People spend months in The Bob all alone.”

      “I’ll consider it after we’ve settled your case. Do you think your lecturer would talk about the artist?”

      “I’m sure he would. He bored me silly for a whole semester about other artists and they’re dead.”

      Abruptly, Zane laughed. “Ouch! That’s awfully critical, isn’t it?”

      “You’re right.” She smiled back.

      She liked being around Zane.

      His gaze drifted over her shoulder toward the front entrance. Suddenly, he stiffened. “Kristin, listen to me carefully,” he whispered. “Take your purse and walk toward the washroom, but don’t go in. Do it now!”

      She opened her mouth, but his icy glare froze any questions. Lifting her purse, she slid out of the booth.

      “Hurry, but don’t run,” he said quietly, taking a fake sip of water. “And don’t look around.”

      A minute later, she found herself down the dim hall near the washrooms, her heart pounding. From the front of the restaurant, the sound of a loud crash bounced down to her.

      She jumped. What was going on?

      Suddenly, a dark blur raced toward her and propelled her into the restaurant’s busy kitchen. Inside the steamy room, a young cook’s eyes widened in shock.

      Then someone slapped a hand over her mouth.