Page 34 of Complete Me

"My father," I said, and Brex didn't question me. An ordinary woman didn't just not exist. She had been covered up, but evidently not well enough.

"He's a little easier to get information on, considering his high-profile occupation."

So he really was a racer. I'd have to look into him further.

"Her name is Rachel Stone," Brex told me. "She's 48 years old, and that's all we know about her. We found a few pictures, but there's no employment history, nothing. She draws a small pension from the armed forces in the name of her husband."

"And a monthly salary from my father," I added with annoyance. Dad had gone to a lot of trouble to make certain no one found her. Why? What had she had on him to guarantee his silence and cooperation?

"I want to meet her," I said after a while.

"That is not a good idea," Brex advised.

I tilted my head back to the helicopter. "And that was?"

"Am I going to talk you out of this?" Brex asked.

"You can try, but it's a waste of breath."

"Can I at least escort you?"

"Send me her files."

"And then we'll talk about this further, right?" Brex prompted.

"And her address," I added. "Tomorrow I'm going to Silverstone."

16

The village of Silverstone had none of the flash of the nearby racing track for which it was known. I couldn't help but chuckle as I passed a sign that read please drive safely. It was a well-meant warning that no doubt fell on deaf ears. The area was known for the racing track, and I suspected they had their fair share of local teens angling to become part of the action. The tiny town consisted mostly of 19th-century brick and stone houses. Every few meters sat a tiny pub where the locals went for an evening draught.

Turning the Range Rover onto a slender strip of pavement that barely passed as a road, I found the address I was looking for. I pulled over a few houses down and considered my options. I came all the way here, so it made sense to see this through. But now that the answers I'd sought were within my grasp, I wanted to turn around. A few older gentlemen wearing driving caps and tweed jackets ambled past and nodded their heads. If they recognized me it didn't show. I couldn't expect such luck for long.

“This is what you wanted,” I told myself. Had it really come to this? Coaching myself through a confrontation with my father's past while sitting on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere? In that moment, it didn't matter that I was the king of England. It didn't matter that I had faced war and assassins. What did matter was why I was here. I came to find the truth, and I wouldn't find it sitting in a car.

Last night, I had read the file on Rachel Stone. It had been alarmingly brief. There wasn't much to say about this woman who’d commanded so much of my father's attention—or at least his money. She was a widow, and she moved to Silverstone shortly before her son's birth. There were no criminal records or scandalous news articles. If my father had paid for her discretion, she performed that task admirably. There was even less about Anderson Stone. I had ordered Brexton to supply me with information as it came in. That meant we had a lot to learn about the Stone family. It was wise he didn't want me to come. I should have listened to him, but I had never been very good at listening to anyone.

That character flaw left me to wonder if my father had tried to tell me about his other son. I had laid awake in bed, searching my memories for some clue. But if he had left any—other than the mysterious bank account—I had been too dense to see it.

As I sat there, a young man walked by with a Christmas tree braced over his shoulder. I froze, hoping to catch a glimpse of his face. Presumably, Anderson Stone would want to spend the holidays with his mother. I had seen photos of him, mostly on his Facebook account, but I wasn't certain what he’d look like in person. When the man turned, I was relieved and disappointed to see it wasn't him. However, the Christmas tree had been a reminder that I had my own family to think of. I had promised Clara I would see this to the end and then I would find her. The thought of my wife was the catalyst I needed to open the Range Rover's door.

Gravel crunched underfoot as I walked a few paces back to the house. It was an unassuming brick box, a plume of smoke curled from the chimney and a single string of Christmas lights decorated the front door. I paused my hand on the antique knocker and then struck it. Inside a woman's voice called out merrily, “I'll be right there, love.”

A few moments later the door opened to reveal an older woman, her sandy blonde hair streaked with gray and her blue eyes shining brightly. She blinked a few times as if she had opened the door to a ghost. Then her mouth fell open. She closed it quickly and stepped to the side. “Won't you come in?”

Her recovery was admirable. Then again, I supposed she had expected this day to come. When I began looking into my father's personal life, I knew I would uncover secrets. She must have known that I would as well. I hesitated on the threshold. I was the one who had questioned her motives and her allegiance. If she was the threat I suspected, I was walking into a viper's nest.

“I won't bite,” she assured me. Despite the tension of the situation, she was smiling. I stepped inside, and she closed the door behind me. “I never imagined finding Albert’s son on my doorstep.”

I raised an eyebrow. If my information was true, she’d had Albert’s son under her roof. I kept the jibe to myself.

The house was, for lack of a better term, homey. It still retained much of its historical charm with slightly crooked walls and creaking floorboards. There wasn't much to it, but then again, I lived in a palace. She let me through a quaint hallway into a cheery kitchen with butter yellow walls and checked curtains hanging on the windows.

“Would you like some tea?” She didn't wait for my reply. Instead she began to fill the tea kettle before placing it on the hob. “I'm afraid I don't have any fancy tea to brew. I expect you’re used to something a mite better than what I get in town.”

“I'm not picky,” I said with a shrug. Nothing about this situation was going according to plan. Not that I had a plan. I hated to admit it, I had anticipated more drama.

“You must have questions for me.” She took a seat at the small kitchen table and gestured for me to join her. I sat opposite her and searched for what to say.