bottle. She’d gone to sleep in a baby stroller with her bottle tucked beside her. She’d nestled in Floyd’s arms while he’d stood on the sidewalk to watch a parade go by.
A Fourth of July parade.
Unless Peters had invented a time travel machine, Becky’s birthday wasn’t the seventh of July.
Her parents had lied. They hadn’t been very good at it, either, since they’d taken their own photographic evidence that would prove they’d lied. They’d obviously thought better of it afterward, though. That’s why these pictures had never made it into a photo album. They’d been crammed into the bottom of a box, stuck in an attic and forgotten about. It would have been smarter to destroy them, but the Peters had doted on their new baby. They wouldn’t have wanted to lose the memories they’d captured on film.
Jake tapped the photo against his palm. It still wasn’t proof that Becky was Gina. There could have been some other reason the Peters had wanted to conceal their daughter’s actual birth date.
Yet the facts continued to point in that direction. Jake knew what a newborn looked like. His sisters-in-law had been producing children on a regular basis, and they’d been almost as camera-happy as Lizzie Peters. His nieces and nephews had all shared that same wide-eyed, somewhat startled look when they tried to focus on things, and they all had the same floppy, neckless body shape. It was a safe bet that Becky had been born around the same time as the Grossos’ missing baby.
When he’d found this picture three days ago, his first impulse had been to call her. She’d been gone since the weekend and he’d already been missing the sound of her voice. He knew she’d be thrilled with the news. He could imagine how her tone would rise with excitement. She’d probably laugh when he described the picture to her and then make some comment about how her mother had liked to dress her funny. He liked the sound of her laugh. He wanted to make her happy.
Yeah, right. He wanted a lot more than that.
Which is why he hadn’t called her. It was just as well that Becky was currently on the other side of the world. Distance was exactly what they both needed.
Jake slipped the photo back into his shirt pocket, got out of his car and headed for the track. The drivers were giving each other some friendly competition, in spite of the fact it wasn’t a race. Jake watched while they sped across the backstretch, then he scanned the infield, looking for Dean. The team was doing well this season, thanks in large part to Dean Grosso’s steady guidance.
The family had had a lot to deal with, starting with the murder of Alan Cargill just before the ownership was to be transferred to the Grossos. More than seven months had passed since then with no charges being laid, yet the New York cop who was working on the case, Lucas Haines, had struck Jake as a competent man, so he had faith that the culprit would be found eventually. It had been tough on the Grossos to lose their friend in such a violent way. They’d only begun to come to terms with it when the news that Gina might still be alive had broken.
Dean and especially Patsy had taken it hard. They’d mourned their daughter years ago, and ripping open that old wound must have been painful. Jake would be only too glad to bring the Grossos some good news, but there was no way he would set them up for more heartache.
He spotted Dean standing beside the starter’s tower. His thick, brown hair and broad shoulders made him easy to pick out, but what really distinguished him was his body language. He looked like a man accustomed to being in charge, whether it was behind the wheel, as he used to be, or behind the team as he was now. He didn’t look like Becky, but as Jake had thought before, the two did share a certain stubbornness. At the moment, Dean appeared deep in conversation with his crew chief. Jake took advantage of that and headed in the opposite direction.
The No. 414 car
A Fourth of July parade.
Unless Peters had invented a time travel machine, Becky’s birthday wasn’t the seventh of July.
Her parents had lied. They hadn’t been very good at it, either, since they’d taken their own photographic evidence that would prove they’d lied. They’d obviously thought better of it afterward, though. That’s why these pictures had never made it into a photo album. They’d been crammed into the bottom of a box, stuck in an attic and forgotten about. It would have been smarter to destroy them, but the Peters had doted on their new baby. They wouldn’t have wanted to lose the memories they’d captured on film.
Jake tapped the photo against his palm. It still wasn’t proof that Becky was Gina. There could have been some other reason the Peters had wanted to conceal their daughter’s actual birth date.
Yet the facts continued to point in that direction. Jake knew what a newborn looked like. His sisters-in-law had been producing children on a regular basis, and they’d been almost as camera-happy as Lizzie Peters. His nieces and nephews had all shared that same wide-eyed, somewhat startled look when they tried to focus on things, and they all had the same floppy, neckless body shape. It was a safe bet that Becky had been born around the same time as the Grossos’ missing baby.
When he’d found this picture three days ago, his first impulse had been to call her. She’d been gone since the weekend and he’d already been missing the sound of her voice. He knew she’d be thrilled with the news. He could imagine how her tone would rise with excitement. She’d probably laugh when he described the picture to her and then make some comment about how her mother had liked to dress her funny. He liked the sound of her laugh. He wanted to make her happy.
Yeah, right. He wanted a lot more than that.
Which is why he hadn’t called her. It was just as well that Becky was currently on the other side of the world. Distance was exactly what they both needed.
Jake slipped the photo back into his shirt pocket, got out of his car and headed for the track. The drivers were giving each other some friendly competition, in spite of the fact it wasn’t a race. Jake watched while they sped across the backstretch, then he scanned the infield, looking for Dean. The team was doing well this season, thanks in large part to Dean Grosso’s steady guidance.
The family had had a lot to deal with, starting with the murder of Alan Cargill just before the ownership was to be transferred to the Grossos. More than seven months had passed since then with no charges being laid, yet the New York cop who was working on the case, Lucas Haines, had struck Jake as a competent man, so he had faith that the culprit would be found eventually. It had been tough on the Grossos to lose their friend in such a violent way. They’d only begun to come to terms with it when the news that Gina might still be alive had broken.
Dean and especially Patsy had taken it hard. They’d mourned their daughter years ago, and ripping open that old wound must have been painful. Jake would be only too glad to bring the Grossos some good news, but there was no way he would set them up for more heartache.
He spotted Dean standing beside the starter’s tower. His thick, brown hair and broad shoulders made him easy to pick out, but what really distinguished him was his body language. He looked like a man accustomed to being in charge, whether it was behind the wheel, as he used to be, or behind the team as he was now. He didn’t look like Becky, but as Jake had thought before, the two did share a certain stubbornness. At the moment, Dean appeared deep in conversation with his crew chief. Jake took advantage of that and headed in the opposite direction.
The No. 414 car
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