“I’m sure he was a little nervous. Freshman year of college is a big deal. It certainly was for me.” She typed the address of the Fosters’ home into her phone.

“I always bought him fries after soccer practice or if I had to work a double shift. I think the fries were more for my benefit than his.”

“Feeding is a form of love. He might not have said it, but the ritual must have comforted him.”

“All I got from the kid today were grunts and silence.”

“His prefrontal cortex isn’t fully developed; add in hormones and the stress of a new life situation, and you’re bound to get a moody kid. Your son is acting as he should.”

“You should know. You’re the profiler.” He had never asked what she’d noticed about him, but he was slightly curious. “And what advice do you have for his old man?”

“Keep doing what you are doing.”

Up until now, he had tabled whatever additional questions he’d had about her personal life. “You have any kids?”

“No.”

“Did I hear something about you moving?”

“To Old Town. An uncle left me his place on Prince Street.”

He whistled. “That’s expensive real estate.”

“Don’t get me started on the electric bills.”

“You going to keep the place?”

“I don’t know. It’s crammed full of furniture and memories. Until I sort through it all, I’ll hang on to the place.”

The GPS directed him down familiar streets and then on Janney Road and finally into an upscale neighborhood. It was five fifteen when he parked in front of the Fosters’ two-story brick colonial. It had a neat front yard that managed to remain green in the brutal August heat, and parked in the gravel driveway was a late-model Ford Explorer. It was upward of three thousand square feet and, in this high-dollar neck of the woods, would have cost over a million dollars.

Out of the car, she waited as he crossed around the front and joined her. “Business must be good,” he said.

“It appears so.”

No missing her skepticism. She knew as well as he that appearances could be damn deceiving. He had seen plenty of drugs and domestic abuse in expensive homes as well as compassion and tenderness in the slums. You never knew what happened behind closed doors.

The generously trimmed bushes lining the brick exterior offered no hiding place for anyone looking to cause trouble, and there was a tall privacy fence rimming the backyard. He guessed no dog, because if there was one on the premises, it would generally be barking by now.

Still, he flexed his fingers and kept his jacket unbuttoned and his holstered gun quickly accessible, a habit he had picked up early in his detective days. Spencer’s actions mirrored his as she tactically positioned herself a few steps behind him. This should be a straightforward death notification, but a smart cop who wanted to go home alive always expected trouble.

He rang the bell, and footsteps thudded on a hard floor inside the house. Two latches scraped across a lock, and a bolt clicked open. Not typical of suburbia. Normally, folks in the nice areas figured bad things did not happen there. Hadley Prince Foster knew otherwise.

The heavy oak door opened to a petite woman with long blond hair pulled into a ponytail. She wore expensive exercise gear that was designed more for fashion than function and athletic shoes that matched the striping on her capri pants. Diamonds winked from her left ring finger and her ears.

“May I help you?” Her smile was pleasant but not warm and welcoming.

Both Vaughan and Spencer held up their badges. “Hadley Foster?”

She tightened her hand on the doorknob. “I am.”

“Your maiden name was Prince?” Spencer asked.

The smile was gone. “That’s right.”

“May we come inside?” Spencer asked. “There’s something we need to talk to you about.”

“Concerning?” Hadley asked.

“Your sister, Marsha,” Vaughan replied.

Under the expertly applied makeup, Hadley’s face paled, and her lips thinned into a grim line. A car door across the street slammed closed, and she flinched. She looked past them to the house across the street, and when the man dressed in a dark suit waved, she smiled weakly and waved back.

“Come inside,” she said.

As she moved to the side, they angled around her and stepped into a foyer. Directly in front of them was a set of carpeted stairs that rose up to a second floor.

To his right, there was a formal room, and down the center hallway, a kitchen filled with white marble and bright stainless steel appliances. A back door fed off the kitchen into the yard surrounded by the privacy fence they had seen when they’d approached the house.

“This way, please.” Hadley escorted them into the formal room, furnished with overstuffed chairs and a couch. A coffee table sported a large picture book featuring modern art. Pale-gray walls displayed a collection of framed paintings that created a look that was too cold for his taste.

This place was nothing like the man cave he shared with Nate. Best they could do in the way of decorating was a couple of framed Washington Redskins jerseys and a poster of the Rocky Mountains. Furniture in their small den included a couple of big recliners, a threadbare couch, and a wide-screen television.

Vaughan and Spencer each took a side chair. Hadley sat on the couch across from them, careful to sit in the center, the coffee table between them.

Spencer opened her folder and handed the picture of the bust to Hadley and said nothing.

Hadley took the paper, and when her gaze dropped to the image, her hand trembled slightly. A breath shuddered through her body. “That’s my sister.”

“Are you sure?” Spencer asked.

“Yes.” Suspicion sharpened Hadley’s gaze. “It looks like a sculpture. What’s this about?”

“A set of remains was found in a nearby storage unit in the middle of June. I did a re-creation of the deceased’s face, using the skull as a point of reference.”

“Were you working off pictures of my sister?” Hadley asked.

“No. While I was working on the bust, I didn’t know about your sister.”

“Is that the skull they were talking about on the news?” Hadley asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“I had no idea.” Hadley placed the image on the coffee table but stared at it as if she were seeing a ghost. “Are you sure it’s Marsha? The news kept saying there was no DNA.”

“There was no DNA. That’s why we enlisted the help of Agent Spencer,” Vaughan said.

“Enough of the skull remained for me to sculpt the image you see before you. I ran the image of the reconstructed bust through a facial recognition scanning program, which said there was a ninety-eight percent probability it was Marsha Prince.”

“So there’s a two percent chance it’s not her. My sister could still be alive,” Hadley said.

“Actually, the probability it’s not her is 1.8 percent,” Spencer countered.

Hadley closed her eyes and pressed her fingers against her closed lids. Stillness washed over her, and when she finally spoke, her voice broke, forcing her to steady it. “I’ve spent the last eighteen years wondering what happened to her. I can’t tell you how many nights I’ve dreamed of her walking through the front door with a big grin on her face. I’d wake up so happy.” She folded her arms around her waist as if reliving the sensation. “And then I’d realize she was still gone.”