I stare, shocked at the difference. In the first, Joyce has her hair pulled back in a neat braid past her shoulders, and her eyes are bright with excitement as she stands at the podium collecting a ribbon. The other looks to be a high school yearbook photo. Her hair is short and appears as if it’s been chopped by a weed whacker. Her cheekbones are sharply pronounced. Her face gaunt. And most haunting is the sunken blankness of her eyes.
A sudden chill goes through me.
“What?” Lena asks.
I know all about grief—what it looks like and feels like. What it can do to you. And I feel that I’m staring into the face of a girl who’s suffered a loss far greater than that of her beloved horse. “It doesn’t connect,” I say and pick up a pad of sticky notes to jot down all the disjointed pieces. “Avid horseback riding competitor until fifteen,” I write. “Horse poisoned. No culprit found. Falls apart and quits the sport. Loses a great deal of weight. Appearance deteriorates drastically. Eleven months later, has a baby. No father ever identified. Then, according to the Franklins, Joyce neglects her child and begins using drugs. They also claim she tried to extort money from them in exchange for custody.” I continue writing. “When that failed, she disappeared with the son she supposedly didn’t want.”
“You don’t believe that’s the way it went down?” Lena asks, scanning the sticky notes, which form a yellow patchwork on her desk.
“I believe it’s a convenient explanation that puts Joyce in a bad light and makes them appear to be good, concerned parents who deserve custody of their grandson—the heir to Franklin Farms. From meeting Charles Franklin, I know that is paramount to him.”
“But there must be some truth to their claims. All the Child Protective Services reports state that Dwayde was physically abused while in Joyce’s care.”
“I’m not saying she was a good parent. But she was on hard drugs by the time she ran—that can alter behavior. I’m more concerned about what happened to trigger such an extreme change. Something more than the grief over her horse.”
“And you have a theory?” Lena suggests.
“Suspicions, possibilities…nothing solid,” I say, not ready to share them without more information. “But my gut says Dwayde can connect the dots.”
“And he’s not talking to protect himself?”
“That or someone else.”
“Wow. It just keeps getting weirder. Should I put Coop on it?” she asks of Brian Cooper, the private investigator we use on occasion.
“Not yet. I need to talk to Calista. See what she’s turned up, if anything.”
“Don’t worry, Dee,” Lena says. “It’ll all come together.”
I nod at the reassurance, though I don’t feel any better. There’s less than five weeks to trial and, looking down at the notes, I have more questions than answers.
The office line rings then, and Lena reaches over to pick up. “Deeana Chase, Child Advocacy Services. How may I help you?”
“Oh hello, Mick.” She sends me a knowing grin. “Let me check if Dee’s available.” Lena presses the hold button. “Well, someone’s sure changed her tune. I assume by the ear-to-ear smile that you’ll take it.”
“I most definitely will.” I don’t bother to hide my pleasure.
“When are you planning to tell me whether Mick and Micah Peters are one and the same?”
“It’s more fun to leave you guessing.”
“Evil,” she says, sulking. “I could just ask him, you know.”
“You could. But you respect my privacy too much to do that.”
“Ooh…so unfair.”
I blow her a kiss and head to my office. After closing the door, my pulse leaping, I lift the receiver and slide onto my chair. “Hi.”
“I can’t stop thinking about you.”
The sexy rasp of his morning voice makes me wish I’d been there to wake up to him. “I know the feeling.”
“Do you?”
“Um-hm.”
“Good.” I hear rustling and picture him moving among the sheets we’d shared. “Take the day off and spend it with me.”
