Chapter 2 - The Woman in the Photograph
The paramedics arrived before I could ask another question.
Everything became movement.
Cassidy was placed on a stretcher.
Lydia screamed when they lifted her mother.
I carried her outside while a deputy separated Trent from us.
Daniel Cross remained beside the SUV.
He didn't attempt to leave.
That mattered.
A guilty man might stay.
An innocent man might run.
Nothing was simple anymore.
At the hospital, doctors rushed Cassidy into emergency surgery.
The baby was in distress.
Lydia sat against me in a plastic chair, clutching her elephant.
At 1:36 a.m., I requested the 911 reference number.
At 1:41, I gave my statement.
At 1:48, Cassidy's torn maternity sweater and Lydia's pajamas were collected as evidence.
Then Deputy Brock Timmons appeared.
I knew Brock.
Everyone around Billings knew somebody like him.
He had hunted with Trent.
Drank with Trent.
And whenever Trent caused trouble, Brock somehow found an explanation that made Trent look misunderstood.
He opened his notebook.
“Frank, before we make this bigger than it needs to be—”
The surgical doors opened.
A doctor stepped out.
“Family of Cassidy Huxley?”
I stood.
The baby had been delivered by emergency C-section.
A boy.
Three pounds, eleven ounces.
Breathing.
Alive.
Cassidy was stable.
My knees nearly failed.
Lydia whispered:
“My baby brother?”
I kissed her hair.
“Yes.”
Then the doctor became serious.
Cassidy had injuries inconsistent with a simple fall.
Brock stopped writing.
I watched his face.
He knew what that meant.
The investigation could no longer be softened into a domestic misunderstanding.
Then Daniel Cross appeared at the far end of the hallway with two state investigators.
The black briefcase was now sealed inside an evidence bag.
Brock saw him.
And froze.
Daniel saw Brock too.
Neither man spoke.
That silence told me they knew each other.
“Deputy,” I said.
Brock ignored me.
Daniel didn't.
“You should ask him where he was on March 18, 1994.”
Brock's face changed.
I stared.
“What happened in 1994?”
Daniel looked at me.
“Your wife disappeared.”
“Elaine died in 2015.”
“No.”
He spoke carefully.
“Elaine Mercer died in 2015.”
My stomach tightened.
“My wife's name was Elaine Mercer.”
“Eventually.”
Daniel removed a photocopy from a folder carried by the investigator.
A Montana driver's license.
The photograph was unmistakably my wife.
But the name wasn't Elaine Mercer.
Rebecca Cross.
I looked at Daniel.
“Cross?”
“My sister.”
The hallway seemed to tilt.
I had been married to Elaine for thirty-four years.
We raised Cassidy.
We buried Elaine after pancreatic cancer.
I knew every scar on her hands.
Every expression.
Every terrible joke.
Daniel wasn't telling me I had married a stranger.
He was telling me the woman I loved had once been somebody else.
“Why did she change her name?”
Daniel answered:
“Because someone was looking for her.”
“Who?”
His eyes shifted toward Brock.
Brock snapped his notebook closed.
“Don't start this.”
Daniel smiled without humor.
“Still protecting them?”
“Protecting who?”
Before Daniel could answer, Lydia slid from my chair.
She walked toward Brock.
“Papa?”
“Yes?”
She pointed at his wrist.
Brock wore an old braided leather bracelet.
“I saw that.”
“Where, sweetheart?”
Lydia pointed toward Trent.
“Daddy has one.”
Brock immediately pulled his sleeve down.
Then Lydia whispered:
“The man who came to our house last night had one too.”
Daniel stared at Brock.
“What man?”
Lydia shook her head.
“Not him.”
She pointed at Daniel.
“A different man.”
My blood went cold.
There had been someone at Cassidy's house before Trent returned.
Someone Lydia had not mentioned.
Brock crouched.
“Lydia, are you sure?”
She backed away from him.
Then she said:
May you like
“You know him.”
Brock went completely still.
