And Marta was right—the resemblance was striking. Same bone structure, same elegant neck, same way of tilting her head when she smiled.
But it was the background of the photo that made my blood run cold.
A man stood partially obscured by other picnic-goers, his profile just visible. Dark hair, a firm jaw, and a bearing that suggested confidence bordering on arrogance.
I knew that profile.
“Can you expand this?” I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral.
“Sure.” Marta took the phone back and zoomed in on the background figure.
The image appeared pixelated and fuzzy, but I could still make out enough details. The set of the shoulders. The way he held himself. The watch on his wrist that I’d seen a thousand times in board meetings.
“I can see the resemblance,” I said carefully, handing the phone back. “Can I get a copy of this photo?”
Marta looked confused but nodded. “Sure. I’ll text it to you. Why?”
“Just curious about the old photos,” I lied smoothly. “Tashi talks about her mother, but I’ve never seen pictures.”
Tashi smiled at me, unaware of the implications churning through my mind. “Mom was beautiful. Everyone said so.”
“She was,” I agreed, watching as Marta sent me the photo.
The rest of dinner passed in a blur. I smiled, laughed at the right moments, and made small talk about New York and Vegas and the differences between East Coast and West Coast living. But my mind was elsewhere, running through possibilities, connections, and timelines that couldn’t be a coincidence.
After dessert, I escorted both women back to Tashi’s suite, kissed her goodnight with a gentleness I didn’t feel, and waited until the door closed before pulling out my phone.
Ares answered on the first ring. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m sending you a picture,” I said, already attaching the file. “It’s from an old company picnic in New York. Early 2000s. Tashi’s mother is in it.”
“Okay.”
“Look at the background. Tell me who you think that is.”
I waited, listening to Ares’s breathing change as he examined the photo.
Then he drew in a sharp breath. “Is that a young Henri Saltz?”
“You tell me.”
Silence. Then: “It could be. The angle’s bad, and the resolution is shit, but that profile…the watch… Orion, what are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking it’s not a coincidence that Henri seemed to recognize Tashi the first time he saw her. I’m thinking about how he looked at her—not like she was an employee, but like she was someone he knew. Someone personal.”
“You think Henri and Tashi’s mother?—”
“I don’t know what to think,” I cut him off. “But I want you to find out everything you can about Henri Saltz in New York. I want you to find out where Henri Saltz worked, who he associated with, and any connections he had to Catherine George.”
“Catherine George. That’s Tashi’s mother?”
“Yes. And Ares? This stays between us for now. I don’t want to say anything to Tashi until we know more.”
“Understood.” I could already hear him moving, the keyboard clicking in the background. “I’ll start digging. If there’s a connection, I’ll find it.”
“I know you will.”
I hung up and stared at the photo on my phone. Twenty-five years ago, Henri Saltz and Catherine George attended what appeared to be a casual company event. Maybe it meant nothing. Maybe it was just a coincidence.
