Just One Look by Harlan Coben Page B

woman, but she disliked her intensely.
    Being a mother, Grace thought, was a lot like being an artist-you are always insecure, you always feel like a phony, you know that everybody else is better at it than you. The mothers who doted obsessively on their offspring, the ones who performed their numbing tasks with that Stepford-ready smile and supernatural patience-you know, those mothers who always,
always,
have the right supplies for the ideal after-school craft… Grace suspected that these women were profoundly disturbed.
    Cora was waiting in the driveway of her bubble-gum-pink house. Everybody on the block hated the color. For a while, one neighbor, a prissy thing properly named Missy, had started up a petition demanding that Cora repaint it. Grace had seen Prissy Missy passing around the petition at a first-grade soccer game. Grace had asked to see it, ripped it up, and walked away.
    The color was hardly to Grace’s taste, but memo to the Missys of the world: Get over yourselves.
    Cora teetered toward them in her stiletto heels. She was dressed slightly more demurely-a sweatshirt over the leotard-but it really didn’t matter. Some women oozed sex, even if dressed in a burlap sack. Cora was one of them. When she moved, new curves were formed even as old ones disappeared. Every line from her husky voice, no matter how innocuous, came out as a double entendre. Every tilt of the head was a come-on.
    Cora slid in and looked back at Max. “Hey, handsome.”
    Max grunted and didn’t look up.
    “Just like my ex.” Cora spun back around. “You got that photo?”
    “I do.”
    “I called Gus. He’ll do it.”
    “Did you promise anything in return?”
    “Remember what I said about fifth-date syndrome? Well, are you free Saturday night?”
    Grace looked at her.
    “Kidding.”
    “I knew that.”
    “Good. Anyway, Gus said to scan the photo and e-mail it to him. He can set up an anonymous e-mail address for you to receive replies. No one will know who you are. We’ll keep the text to a minimum, just say that a journalist is doing a story and needs to know the origin of the photograph. That sound okay?”
    “Yeah, thanks.”
    They arrived at the house. Max stomped upstairs and then shouted down, “Can I watch
SpongeBob
?”
    Grace acquiesced. Like every parent, Grace had strict rules about no TV during the day. Like every parent, she knew that rules were made to be broken. Cora headed straight for the cupboard and made coffee. Grace thought about which photograph to send and decided to use a blowup of the right side, the blonde with the X on her face and the redhead on her left. She left Jack’s image-again, assuming that
was
Jack-out. She didn’t yet want him involved. She decided that having two people increased chances of getting an identity hit and made the solicitation look less like the work of a crazed stalker.
    Cora looked at the original photograph. “May I make an observation?”
    “Yes.”
    “This is pretty weird.”
    “The guy over here”-Grace pointed-“the one with the beard. Who does that look like to you?”
    Cora squinted. “I guess it could be Jack.”
    “Could be or is?”
    “You tell me.”
    “Jack’s missing.”
    “Come again?”
    She told Cora the story. Cora listened, tapping a too-long fingernail painted up in Chanel’s Rouge Noir, a color not unlike blood, on the tabletop. When Grace finished, Cora said, “You know, of course, that I have a low opinion of men.”
    “I know.”
    “I believe that, for the most part, they are two floors below dog turd.”
    “I know that too.”
    “So the obvious answer is that, yes, this is a picture of Jack. That, yes, this little blondie, the one gazing up at him like he’s the messiah, is an old flame. That yes, Jack and Mary Magdalene here are having an affair. That someone, maybe her current husband, wanted you to find out about it, so he sent you that picture. That everything came to a head when Jack realized that you were onto