Hank grabbed the photo out of Cal’s hand. “Watch the dog,” he muttered on his way out the door.
The pounding on the cottage door sent the cat streaking into her bedroom and shaved five years off Jenna’s life. Then Hank roared her name and irritation gave way to stark terror, that Blair was hurt, that a forest fire was bearing down on the motel—
She yanked open the door, recoiling at the fury blazing in Hank’s eyes. Before she got her mouth open, he thrust a photograph into her hand.
“That’s my mother, when she was fourteen. Look like anybody you know?”
Jenna blanched: it was all there—the red hair, the freckles, even the shape of the eyelids. “Oh dear God,” she whispered. “This could be—”
“Yeah. So how about you tell me what the hell is going on here?”
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