“I noticed this right off, and the whole time you were sitting there in my shabby office, wearing your city get-up, acting all sassy and know-it-all, you want to know what was going on in my mind?” He ceased the stroking motion of his thumb, stopping it right on the small mole. His mouth lowered to within a hair’s-breadth of hers and he whispered, “Figure it out.”

Then he released her and said over his shoulder as he sauntered away, “Ralph’s here.”

The minute he got to his apartment, he went into the bedroom, tugged off his boots, stripped down to his jeans and, sitting on the edge of the bed, called his friend Carson Rime.

The defense lawyer had a ground floor office in the same building as Trapper’s. His practice was on the wrong side of the freeway to attract criminals who bathed regularly and stood accused only of white-collar malfeasance. But being close to the courthouse, county jail, and bail bondsmen, the location was convenient for Carson’s clients who were unwashed and felonious.

Trapper had to call him three times before he answered. “What the hell, Trapper? Stop calling me. I’m on my honeymoon, for crissake. Or have you forgotten I got married last Saturday?”

“Like that’s a big deal. Isn’t this your fourth?”

“Fifth. Have fun at the wedding?”

“Not the wedding. The reception.”

“What I meant. Quite a blowout, huh? You catch the garter?”

“No, the bridesmaid.”

“Which one?”

“She was blond.”

“Big tits or the skinny one?”

“I can’t remember. Have you ever heard of Kerra Bailey?”

“The one on TV?”

“You know who she is?”

“Sure. She’s a local reporter, but she also shows up every once in a while on that—”

“She came unannounced to my office today.”

After a stunned silence, his friend chortled, “Holy shit! Are you kidding?”

“No.”

“She came to see you?”

“Yes.”

“What for?”

Trapper withheld mention of the photograph and its startling revelation. He told Carson only that Kerra wanted to interview The Major. “She asked me to pave the way for her.”

“To which you said?”

“Several expletives that boiled down to no. But she’s not done asking.”

“How do you know?”

“She gives off a vibe.”

“She vibrates? This just got interesting. Hold on.” Trapper could hear Carson murmuring an apology to the new Mrs. Rime, followed by several seconds of rustling, then a closing door. “Tell me everything.”

Over the sound of Carson noisily peeing into the toilet, Trapper gave him a condensed version of Kerra’s unexpected arrival. When he finished, Carson asked, “Does she understand that you and the pater aren’t exactly simpatico?”

“She does now. But that didn’t sway her. She still believes I could be useful.”

“Are you going to help her?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“Look, Carson, I realize it’s your honeymoon and all, but if I hadn’t taken you to happy hour at that topless club, you and your bride never would’ve met.”

Carson was quick on the uptake. He sighed. “What’s the favor?”

After he and Carson disconnected, Trapper shucked his jeans and got into bed, but he took his laptop with him.

He went on to YouTube and watched every story and interview featuring Kerra Bailey that he could locate. He had wished to find fault, had hoped to see a struggling amateur. But on camera she came across as poised, smart, and informative, but also warm and personable. She had a sharp wit, an incisive toughness without meanness, but she didn’t allow professionalism to overshadow compassion.

After watching clips for almost two hours, Trapper paused a video on a close-up of her face and stared at the beauty mark, the giveaway, the thing he’d seen ten thousand times, but had never really looked at until it had been magnified ten thousand times on his computer screen.

Though he hadn’t known her name until today, he had resented her since he was eleven years old when she had replaced him as the most beloved child in his father’s heart.

Because of her, Trapper had lost his dad to the world.

Because of her, his life had become one long game of catchup at which he continually lost.

Because of her: the little girl his father had carried from the burning ruin of the Pegasus Hotel.

Chapter 3

Kerra was switching between networks to get a sampling of the morning news shows when her cell phone rang. “Hello?”

“I’m outside.” Those two words, and Trapper hung up.

Kerra tossed her phone onto the bed, muttering, “Rude jerk.”

She had already showered, so it didn’t take her long to dress. But she dawdled an extra five minutes, not wanting it to look like she’d rushed down in response to his ill-mannered summons. She should ignore him altogether and find some other way to breach The Major’s self-imposed seclusion.

But she’d already lost another day. Between now and Sunday, every minute counted.

Besides, she couldn’t let Trapper think that he’d intimidated or scared her off with his manhandling last night.

The condo building’s revolving door emptied her into brilliant sunlight and a frigid north wind that made her eyes water. Even so, she couldn’t have missed Trapper. Directly across the street from the building, he was leaning against the passenger side of his car, recognizable by the deep dent in its grill roughly the size of a parking meter post. He exuded supreme confidence that she would appear as summoned.

He was dressed as he’d been the night before except that, beneath the leather jacket, today’s shirt was blue chambray, and he’d added a pair of sunglasses. Ankles and arms crossed, he looked impervious to the wind whipping his dark hair.

She amended her earlier summation: He was a sexy rude jerk.

She waited for a delivery truck to lumber past, then crossed the street mid-block and walked straight toward him. “Isn’t Texas supposed to be hot?”

“Not in February.”

“I moved here from Minneapolis–St. Paul to get away from winter.”

“Live here long enough, you learn we have weather extremes.” He opened the passenger door and motioned her in, then went around. In order to get in on the driver’s side, he had to squeeze past a no parking sign.

Kerra called his attention to it. “Your car could get towed.”

“They’re welcome to it. Smoke has started coming out from under the hood. I figure the radiator’s busted.”

“It fared better than the parking meter.”

He didn’t comment on that as he propped his left shoulder against the driver’s window and turned toward her. After looking at her for what became an uncomfortably long time, he said, “For twenty-five years people have been trying to identify the little girl in that picture.”

“You were so annoyed last night, you never told me exactly how you discovered the birthmark.”

“I took a picture of the picture with my phone, downloaded it onto my computer, and enlarged it to the max. I went over it a square inch at a time with a freaking magnifying glass. Twice. More than half your face is buried between The Major’s chest and arm, but in the part that’s visible you can see the speck near your eye.”

“Eureka!”

“That wasn’t my first reaction,” he said. “My first thought was that you’d doctored the print.”

“You doubted my integrity?”

“Doubted? No. You drop out of nowhere and hit me with this? I was sure you were a fraud.”

“What convinced you otherwise?”

“I checked other prints, early ones, including the cover of Time. If you know to look for it, the mark can be seen on every reproduction of the photo. Not as large or as dark as it is now, but there. You’re about to put an end to all the speculation about the mystery child.”

“Some of the theories regarding my identity were pretty wild,” she said with a soft laugh. “I heard a TV preacher once say that I wasn’t flesh and blood. That I was an angel who’d been miraculously captured on film. That I’d been sent to escort home all the children who’d died in the explosion. Can you believe that?”