“Was it really wise to tell her?”

“No, but we were having a moment. I was trying to empathize, and I told her about Josie. She did the search on her own. She not only found another picture of Josie but also a woman on a DNA site who might be my half sister.”

“That kid’s been busy.”

“Maybe too busy. I have to be more careful with her. She’s more fragile than she lets on, and her attaching herself to me and my drama can’t be healthy.”

“I can have our own people look into Josie Jones. The kid might have missed something.”

“It would be interesting to talk to one of Josie’s family members. They must have more information about her.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Faith. You don’t have hard evidence that this woman is your birth mother.”

“Josie vanished thirty-one years ago, Hayden, about nine months before Macy and I were born. Crow sends Macy out to the ranch, and we find what might be graves. And Macy is snapping pictures of another pregnant girl who’s missing. The coincidences are starting to pile up.”

He shifted in his seat.

The sun grew brighter, chasing them as they traveled west toward the house Macy had found in Hill Country. Faith took one last bite of her bagel. Gravel spit out from under his tires as Hayden drove the last fifty feet and parked behind the forensic van.

As they got out, he could see that the recovery team had already unloaded a ground-penetrating radar machine, and two officers appeared to be mapping out their plan of attack on a paper grid.

He introduced Faith to a tall uniformed officer with dark hair and a football lineman’s broad frame. “Dr. McIntyre, I’d like you to meet Officer Lance Pollard. He runs this equipment.”

She extended her hand. “We worked together before, in a way. About two years ago. Remember the man who killed male prostitutes and buried them on his land?”

Pollard tugged his right ear and glowered. “I found them, and you identified them.”

“That’s exactly right,” she said.

Hayden remembered the case. There’d been fourteen victims, and Faith had yet to identify all of them. In her press briefings, she’d promised she would not quit until every last one of the victims had been identified.

Pollard tugged on latex gloves. “Do you have any idea how many victims we’re looking for today?”

“Judging by the terrain and those stones, I’d say there are three,” Hayden said.

“We’ll sweep the area in a grid pattern, starting by the house and working our way out,” Pollard explained. “As you remember, the equipment puts off an electromagnetic wave into the ground. The signal keeps traveling until it hits any dense object such as rock, bone, or buried debris. The material will reflect the signal, and its image will show up on my display.”

She folded her arms. “The medical examiner’s van is on standby.”

Pollard flipped the switch, and as it hummed to life, he studied the display console mounted at the top. Satisfied, he began to move in a straight line that ran parallel to the house.

“Hayden, do you know who owns the house?” she asked.

“We traced it back to a man by the name of Sam Delany. He’s currently serving a lifetime sentence for murder. However, the property taxes are not in arrears,” Hayden said.

“Who did Mr. Delany kill?”

“His girlfriend. They were fighting. He hit her. She stumbled, struck her head on a stone fireplace, and died.”

“Were you able to get a search warrant for the land and the house?” she asked.

“I did. Utilities were shut off to the house years ago, but there’s a generator there. It’s relatively new, but it’s almost bone-dry. We’re refueling the generator, and it should be up and running soon.”

Her gaze shifted to Pollard, and she carefully watched him complete his first row. “This could take a while.”

“Very easily.”

She shook her head. “What else have you found out about Sam Delany?”

“Not much yet. My partner is pulling his police record as well as financials.”

The generator motor started up, and the lights in the house behind them switched on. The forensic team started to assemble their gear and move toward the front door.

The sun cast a brilliant hue over Faith’s features, and Hayden found himself staring at the high slash of her cheekbones, the brilliant blue of her eyes, and the curve of her full lips. He’d always recognized that she was a stunning woman and, in the years after Sierra had died, acknowledged his strong sexual attraction to her. He’d thought that one evening in the hotel would have put to rest all the fantasies he’d had about her. But what he’d learned was that once was not nearly enough. In fact, he was finding it hard to envision a day when he didn’t want to be with her.

Faith nodded toward the house. “I’d like to see inside.”

“Sure. We’ll get booties and gloves and have a look.”

At the forensic van they slipped on booties and gloves, and he held back, allowing her to go first as they approached the officer positioned at the yellow crime scene tape perimeter.

They showed their identifications to the officer whose job it was to protect the integrity of the scene. He recorded both their names as part of what would be an ongoing log of anyone who visited the scene.

As soon as they crossed the narrow front porch and entered the front door, Hayden was struck by the musty, stale smell of the house’s interior.

“Unpleasant but manageable,” Faith said.

They both were acquainted with the sickly sweet smell of a rotting body that could permeate nostrils, clothes, and shoes. It was a scent never forgotten. However, as they moved closer to the kitchen, he detected the faint whiff of a cleaning agent.

“Do you smell that?” She threaded her long fingers together, working the gloves deep between her fingers.

“I do. Someone recently cleaned this room.”

“The house looks in too good a shape to have been closed up for the past thirty years.”

She stood back, studying the small living room with an oversize easy chair that had been patched in several places with duct tape. Beside the chair was an old end table with a large brass lamp.

On the end table was a picture of a woman standing beside a tall, lean man. Hayden didn’t recognize him but wondered if he was Delany. Judging by the clothes and hair, he guessed the photo was taken decades ago.

The woman in the photo had shoulder-length blond hair, pale skin, and blue eyes. Like Faith.

“Who is she?” Faith asked. Her expression was pensive, as if she were reading his thoughts.

“I don’t know.”

Faith cocked her head, her gaze roaming over the woman’s smiling face, which was vaguely familiar. “She’s not Josie.”

“No.”

“I find myself looking into the eyes of any woman who’s at least fifty and wondering if she’s the one.” Faith picked up the picture and turned it over. “I would like to talk to Garnet.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be returning to talk to him as soon as I leave here.”

“I understand, but I want to be present. I need to know, and so does Macy.” Carefully, she stepped back from the photo. “What’s Jack Crow’s connection to all this?”

“Still a mystery.”

“He knew Garnet, so he must have had some idea of what happened here.”

She crossed to the small L-shaped kitchen. No dishes in the sink; the counters, though covered in dust now, had been wiped clean; and the washed dishes were in the drying rack. She put her hand over her mouth and opened the refrigerator. Hayden braced, knowing it could be a capsule of revulsion. However, the appliance had been wiped clean, and the freezer emptied.

They entered the bedroom and found the bed made. The towels in the bathroom were hanging neatly on the drying rack, and the trash cans had been emptied. A fine coating of dust covered the counter and faucets.

Faith opened the closet in the bedroom and paused. “Have a look at this, Captain.”

He came up behind her and saw five boxes of newborn disposable diapers. There were also several canisters of powdered baby formula, unused baby bottles, and packages filled with yellow baby blankets.

“An odd thing to be kept at an empty house.”

“Yes, it is.” Hayden opened the door from the kitchen and flipped on a light that illuminated a set of wooden stairs. “Watch your step.”

Faith followed him down the dozen steps to a basement that stretched the length of the house. To the left was an upended cot, as well as a laundry room with clothes hanging on the line. She walked toward the clothes, inspecting them. “Big enough for a pregnant belly. They’re dry.”

He turned to the other side of the room and saw the next door. He tried the handle, but the door was locked, so he called up to the uniformed officer and asked for a crowbar. He banged on the door. “Paige, are you in there?”

They both listened but heard nothing. He didn’t want to imagine the girl unconscious or dead, but the possibility was very real. Footsteps on the stairs had him turning toward a young uniformed officer carrying a crowbar.

The officer handed the bar to Hayden, and he wedged the tip under the lock. With a hard jerk, he popped the lock. The officer held the door handle and stood ready for Hayden to give him the word to yank.

“God, I hope we find her,” Faith whispered.

The door swung open in one quick motion.

As the officer covered Hayden, he moved into the room and flipped on the light. He cut his eyes left, right, and up, making sure that no one had planned an unpleasant surprise. He continued to sweep the room, looking behind a curtain that hid a toilet and shower. When it was all clear, he motioned for Faith to come inside.

“She’s not in here.” He holstered his gun.

She entered the room, her posture tense as she looked around the small space. Her expression was stoic, but her eyes betrayed her distress as she looked at the tiny bath facility, what amounted to a kitchen, and the mattress. Her gaze settled on the chain and the cuff that lay open on the floor.