The problem was that her mother had been scared of Frankie for longer than she’d had any cause to be—which had meant she’d always kept Frankie at a distance. There’d been no opportunity to see that beneath it all, they were as scared as each other.
“And she never came back for you?” Kris’s question was hushed.
Frankie considered him. The concern in his eyes, the dismay pulling at the corners of his mouth. The hand that continued to grip hers. He’d asked for her to share everything. Why should she stop here?
“No,” she answered. “So I went to her.”
Frankie’s focus glazed in the direction of that street sign as she told him the painful details.
She’d been twenty. After high school and working for a few years, renting her very own shithole of an apartment, she’d finally felt ready. She had her mother’s last-known whereabouts—on a train destined for Paris. Frankie had noted the taxi’s license plate that fateful afternoon and the driver had later accepted the crisp bill a ten-year-old Frankie had offered to tell her where his passenger had been bound.
She’d never passed on that information to her father. He could have used it to track her—Frankie could have got her mother back. But despite her abandonment, Frankie still felt like she and her mother were on the same side, and she’d wanted to protect her from him.
Ten years on, she’d finally used the lead herself.
It had taken time. Internet searches that went nowhere, deep dives that spat out nothing more than an old record, but determination had eventually led her to an upper-class home in the west of Paris. In the years that had passed, her mother had married a man who earned his wealth as honestly as a banker could, and with him, she’d had two children. Foolishly, Frankie had imagined shock upon her arrival, sobbing apologies in the warmth of her mother’s arms, and long-awaited introductions to her little brother and sister.
No such fantasy had awaited her.
Her mother had physically staggered when she’d answered the bell to find Frankie on the doorstep. Frankie’s jeans and best red jacket had been worlds beneath the beautiful cut and dye of her mother’s hair, the form-flattering outfit, the gigantic ring on her finger.
Sick with nerves, Frankie had adjusted the backpack over her shoulder and scuffed her boot on the welcome mat.
“Hi, Mum.”
“How did you find me?” Wild-eyed, the woman had scanned the street behind her. “Is he here?”
“No.” Frankie had eased her weight back, non-threatening, heart thundering. “I haven’t seen him for years. I just—I wanted to see you.”
“Why?” Her mother’s eyes had snapped to her, pupils wide. “What do you want?”
“I . . .” What did she want from the mother who’d left her in the care of a criminal? Far too much, she was about to discover. “It’s been ten years.”
“What does that mean? My time is up? I get ten years, and then you come for me?”
“What?” Frankie had shoved a hand in her pocket, trying not to let her alarm become defensive anger. “No. I mean it’s been a long time. I—I thought we could talk. Reconnect, maybe.” At her mother’s silence, she’d gestured vaguely to the gorgeous home. “This is nice.”
“So that’s it.” Her mother had nodded too fast. “You’ve finally figured out that I have something worth taking.”
Frankie had taken a step back, the accusation like a gut punch. “No. I—no.”
She’d spent months on this search—years anticipating this very moment. Not once, in all her imaginings, had she considered that this woman had wanted to abandon her.
“I don’t want anything.” Frankie had been queasy with shame. “I have a better life now, too. I just thought . . .”
Her mother had stared at her from where she’d half hidden behind the front door. Conveying, without saying a word, that Frankie had thought wrong.
“Can I come in?” Frankie had asked, voice small. “Or we could go out somewhere? Or I could come back at a better time?”
“There is no better time. I know what you’re doing. The pity angle, trying to put me off guard. Well, it won’t work on me. You’re even more like him now than you were back then.”
“This isn’t an angle.” Helpless, Frankie had taken another step back. She’d never wanted to be like her father. “You’re my mum.”
The woman shook her head. “How can I trust you?”
“How can I trust you? You left me.” Frankie’s voice had trembled with a decade of pain. “You’re my mother and