They Chose the Wrong Daughter novel · Chapter 1 of 24
Chapter 1: The Report
Roz is counting stolen rifles when her parents arrive with a DNA report; she climbs into their Rolls-Royce, and at the mansion the adopted sister hugs her. A text arrives: don't drink what they pour you.
My birth parents found me on a Tuesday, crouched on a crate of stolen rifles with a clipboard in my hand.
I was counting barrels for a shipment that was already two hours late.
My men stood between me and the door, and every one of them had a hand near his belt.
A silver-haired man walked straight through them and none of my men stopped him.
He was in his fifties, big and loud, and he held a folded paper high in one hand.
"Rosalind," he said. "Twenty-six years old. It's all in the report."
The woman behind him pressed a handkerchief to her mouth.
If the paper was right, those two were my father and my mother.
I tossed my pistol to my second, hopped off the crate and took the report outside.
The sun was flat and white over the docks.
I read the lab's summary twice.
The match was certain.
I waited to feel something, and nothing came.
"You came a long way," I said. "Your adopted girl must be furious."
My father shook his head hard.
"She'll manage," he said. "You're the one we came for."
My mother took a step toward me, and her eyes were red.
"You're the only daughter we will ever claim," she said. "Come home. Please."
I lit a cigarette and looked at them both.
They were rich, they were frightened, and they were holding a very good reason to be nice to me.
I wanted to know what the reason was.
So I picked up my briefcase and got into their Rolls-Royce.
My second leaned in the window before the door shut.
"Boss, you want me to come?"
"Stay on the shipment," I said. "If I'm not on the phone by midnight, call the old man."
The car pulled out, and my father talked the whole way.
He talked about the house, the garden, the room they had kept for me, and the years they had spent searching.
I did not answer him.
He asked me to put out the cigarette, because the leather was new.
I flicked the ash into the cup holder and kept smoking.
Gerard Dunleavy opened his mouth, looked at his wife, and closed it again.
I typed orders to my men with one thumb and sketched with the other hand on the back of the report.
I drew every turn we took, every gate, every camera I could see on the road up the bluff.
By the time the iron gates opened, I had the route on paper and two exits marked.
My mother, Lenora, watched me draw.
"Are Fergus's boys always that rude?" she asked.
"They're careful," I said.
She nodded and looked at her hands.
Gerard laughed, too loud, and told the driver to take the long way around the fountain.
The house stood on the bluff over the harbor, white stone with sixty lit windows.
A banner hung over the front steps.
WELCOME HOME, ROSALIND.
Sixty guests in good clothes were lined up on the gravel, clapping.
I knew half of their faces from the files my men kept on who owned whom in this city.
A judge, two union bosses and the harbor commissioner were clapping for me.
I counted the men with earpieces and made it nine.
Gerard put his hand on my back and steered me up the steps.
"They all wanted to see you," he said.
"I can tell," I said.
A young woman came down the steps two at a time, with golden-brown curls and a cardigan the color of oatmeal.
She threw her arms around me before I could stop her.
I let her, because her hands were empty and she smelled like lemon soap.
"I'm Clem," she said into my shoulder. "I'm so glad you're here, Roz. I've made up your room myself."
She stepped back and wiped her eyes with a sleeve.
"Anything you want in this house, you tell me, and I'll get it. I mean it. I'm not even a little jealous."
I looked at her for a moment.
She was twenty-three, soft-faced and sincere, and she was the daughter they had just told me they would never claim.
"That's generous," I said.
"It's easy," she said. "You're my sister."
Behind her, Lenora's mouth trembled.
Gerard clapped a hand on the banister and called for champagne.
A waiter brought me a glass on a silver tray.
I did not take it.
My phone buzzed against my hip, and I turned my back on the crowd to read it.
It was Fergus Rainey, the man who had raised me, and he never texted.
*Don't drink anything they pour you. Don't eat anything you didn't watch them cook. Call me from the bathroom.*
I looked up the steps.
Sixty people were smiling at me, and not one of them had looked away.
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