“I can tell you don’t believe that, but it’s true. No one around me ever referenced the bombing. I was a child. I watched Sesame Street, not 60 Minutes. The Oklahoma City bombing came a few years later, and I remember the grown-ups in my life being terribly upset, but it was irrelevant to me.”

“You never matched the date of the Pegasus bombing with the day your mother died?”

“That’s precisely how I eventually became aware. I was in middle school, about twelve or thirteen. On an anniversary of the bombing, one of my teachers mentioned it. When I got home from school, my aunt was sitting in the living room, looking at a picture of herself and my mother together. I asked her why she was crying. ‘I always get sad on this date,’ she said. ‘It’s the day your mother died.’ Suddenly it clicked. I realized why I had such vivid nightmares of smoke and fire, of my mother letting go of me and being carried away from her.

“My aunt and uncle were reluctant to confirm it. Justifiably, as it turned out, because once I knew, I became obsessed with the bombing. I wanted to learn everything about it. I read all the books, watched all the films and interviews with survivors. I’d seen that famous photo, of course, but I’d never paid much attention to it, because, again, it had no relevance to me.

“But when my aunt pointed me out, I saw not only myself, but also the face of the man who’d saved me. The Major became real when, up to that point, he was only the stranger in my dreams who’d responded to my mother’s dying plea.”

“Why didn’t you blurt it to the world then?”

“My aunt impressed upon me what an awful ordeal it would be for my dad. The Major had stepped into the role of hero naturally, as though born to it. But my dad was a soft-spoken, self-effacing man. Given his circumstances and frailty, it would have been cruel to thrust him into the spotlight. I swore to my aunt, and to myself, that I wouldn’t go public with it as long as Daddy was alive. I upheld that promise.”

“For what? Thirteen years?”

“Roughly. During that time, I went on with my life, a happy, healthy, normal girl. I finished school, entered adulthood, pursued my career.”

“You were preparing for the day.”

“You make it sound more calculated than it was, Trapper. Unfairly. I didn’t want my dad to die. But he did. And yes, by then I had press credentials and an excellent forum. I began reaching out to The Major.”

He ruminated on all that, then said, “The name ‘Bailey’ wouldn’t have meant anything to him. You never told him who you were or why you wanted to interview him?”

“He never gave me a chance to speak more than a few words before hanging up.”

“You could have sent him an email. A letter.”

“I wanted to introduce myself in person. Besides, how many correspondences has he received over time from women claiming to be the rescued little girl?”

“Good point.”

“He would have thought I was just another opportunist.” She held up her hand palm out. “Don’t say it.”

“I won’t. Too easy.” The comeback had been as quick as all his were, but his dark brows were furrowed and there was no humor in his expression. “How many people know that you’re that girl?”

“My aunt and uncle and me. You make four.”

“If you go through with this, everybody will know.”

“Oh, I’ll go through with it, Trapper. With or without your help, I’ll find a way to make it happen.”

He swore under his breath and looked out the windshield again. He could have read the tow warning sign a hundred times during the amount of time he stared at it. She didn’t break his concentration.

When at last he turned back to her, he said, “You’ll have to do it without me.”

“Trapper—”

“Sorry.”

“I’m not giving up until I have a face-to-face with The Major.”

“Up to you if you want to try, but I’m having no part of it.” He slid on his sunglasses and started the car’s engine. “I hope you take rejection well. The Major won’t let you get your foot in the door before running you off. Have a nice life, Kerra.”

She had thought that hearing about the bombing from the viewpoint of a five-year-old survivor would have softened him. There had been a few moments when she felt that she’d struck a human chord, snagged a sensitive thread in his caustic soul, but apparently not.

He wasn’t even angry and edgy as he’d been last night. He was cool and indifferent. Further argument would only provide him more opportunities to be ornery and insulting, and she’d be damned before giving him that satisfaction.

“I wish I could say that it’s been a pleasure, Mr. Trapper. But all you’ve been is crude, rude, and a waste of precious time. Thanks for nothing.” She yanked the handle of the car door and pushed it open.

“One thing, though,” he said.

She turned back. “What?”

“If I had it to do over, I’d kiss you like you wanted me to.”

“Go to hell.” She slammed the car door, crossed the street, and didn’t look back.

She stormed through the entrance of her building and made a beeline for the resident concierge. The smiling young woman asked how she could be of service.

Kerra requested that her car be brought from the garage. “An hour from now.”

“What’d you get?”

“What happened to ‘Hello, how are you? I’m sorry for butting in on your honeymoon.’”

“I’m not in the best of moods, Carson, so cut the crap.” Trapper had watched Kerra jog across the street and disappear through the glassy entrance of her apartment building. He then drove away, but only covered a couple of blocks before pulling into an empty loading zone and punching in his friend’s number.

Last night the favor he’d asked of Carson was to use every available resource to run a background check on Kerra Bailey.

“I didn’t get anything you couldn’t have gotten on your own,” Carson complained.

“I’ve been busy.”

“Like I haven’t?”

“And I have to go through legal channels to get information.”

“If you start nitpicking, then—”

“I repeat. What did you get?”

“I emailed it all about thirty minutes ago.”

“Thanks, but I’m driving,” Trapper lied. “Can you give me the bullet points?”

Carson huffed in exasperation but began. “When she was five years old, she was adopted by her aunt and uncle.”

“Do you know what happened to her real parents?”

“Court records of the adoption were sealed.”

The aunt and uncle truly had protected her identity and history. “Okay.”

“Grew up middle class. Apple pie Americana. No scandal. Straight and narrow and boring, if you want to know the truth.”

“Okay.”

“She attended junior college in her home town in Virginia before transferring to Columbia.”

“South Carolina?”

“No, Columbia University in New York. Graduated with a BA in journalism. She hopped around to various and sundry TV stations, never staying long at one before moving on, always to a larger market, till she landed this gig in Dallas early last year. Local network affiliate. She gets a lot of face time. Network uses her for regional stories that go national. There’s a bunch of her stuff on YouTube.”

Trapper didn’t admit to having watched hours of it.

“I have her car tag and driver’s license numbers.”

“If they’re in the email, I don’t need them now.”

Carson rumbled on. “She lives in downtown Dallas, one of those glassy condo buildings near Victory Park.”

Trapper didn’t tell Carson he’d just been there, but he did ask, “Alone?”

“The condo’s in her name, and that’s the only name on the mailbox. I made up some gobbledygook and talked to the concierge of her building. No roommate since she’s lived there. Let’s see … what else? Oh, she was arrested once in Seattle.”