Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) Read Online Free PDF Page B

light spilled through the tall windows, falling in brilliant stripes along the corridor.
    â€œHow did you meet my uncle?” she asked.
    â€œActually, I didn’t. We corresponded. His letters were baffling.”
    Her pulse sped up. “Do you have them?”
    â€œYes.” Jude paused under a departure monitor and glanced at the schedule. Then he pointed to a desk. “That’s my gate. Perhaps I could change my reservation. I’ve got a dreadful layover, anyway. What’s your flight number? If I switched, we’d have three and a half hours to talk.”
    He walked to a British Airways counter and explained his dilemma to the ticket agent, whose face was shaped like a fist. “I’m terribly sorry,” the agent said. “I’m afraid all seats are taken.”
    Jude turned back to Caro. “Well, I tried. Perhaps we can reconnect at the Sofia airport. It’s a big ask, but could you wait there until my plane arrives?”
    â€œSomeone from the embassy is meeting me.” She felt a pinch of disappointment. She was dying to know what was in those letters. From the overhead speakers, a woman with a clipped voice announced Caro’s flight number.
    â€œThat’s me,” she said. “I should go.”
    â€œBut how shall I find you?”
    â€œI’m staying at the Hotel Ustra in Kardzhali. Let me give you my mobile number.”
    â€œI don’t have a mobile.” He stepped backward, toward his gate. “I’ll hire a car and make my way to Kardzhali. Perhaps we can have tea and discuss your uncle.”
    The loudspeaker kept announcing Caro’s flight. She reluctantly turned and ran to her gate. It wasn’t until her plane taxied down the runway that she realized she’d forgotten his last name. It started with a B , she was sure of it. She was so discombobulated, all she remembered was Jude. If he forgot her hotel, she’d never find him. And those letters would be lost. If they existed.

CHAPTER 4
    WILKERSON PHARMACEUTICALS
EAST LONDON, ENGLAND
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    Harry Wilkerson rose from his desk and paced in front of the long windows. His office was on the twenty-fifth floor of Wilkerson Pharmaceuticals, the newest building in the East End of London and home to the biggest pharmaceutical company in Europe. He clasped his hands behind his back and stared down at the River Thames, watching a tourist boat chug through the gray water.
    If Caroline Clifford was out there, he would find her. Maybe she was his daughter, and maybe she wasn’t. Either way, nothing would change for him.
    He turned away from the view, stepped over to his desk, and reached for an old newspaper. It was dated November 5, Guy Fawkes Day, and showed a photograph of a pretty, but apparently ditzy, London tour guide who’d lost an entire family at a tube station. Days ago, when he’d read the article, he’d been captivated by the girl’s heart-shaped face and wide-set eyes that slanted upward just the slightest bit. Except for the bushy, shoulder-length hair, which appeared to be dishwater blond, she was the image of his dead wife, Vivienne.
    At first, he’d thought the girl was Vivienne—had she somehow survived the fire? If Vivienne hadn’t perished, she would now be in her forties. He found a magnifying glass and held it over the photograph. This girl was younger. Her skin was plump, glowing, and unwrinkled. Yet the resemblance to Vivi was uncanny. Surely her daughter, Caroline, had died in the inferno. But the remains of only two bodies had been found in the ashes. Wilkerson abhorred loose ends, and his experts had assured him that the bones of a five-year-old child would have been cremated in that blaze. Now, decades later, here was Vivi’s dead ringer in the newspaper. He threw down the newspaper, strode to the bar, and poured a glass of scotch.
    Twenty-six years ago, on the Ides of March no less, he’d sent Vivienne to