“What do you mean?”
“There was a car accident during a chase. She fell out of the passenger side door and lay there, just lay there. Max thought she was hurt. When he hurried to help, her boyfriend shot Max, point-blank.”
Heather again seemed like she wanted to leave. “And I look exactly like her?”
“Yes. She disappeared that day and hasn’t been heard from since. You’re my first lead.”
“I’m not a lead. I’ve never heard of her until today.”
“I want to believe you. Really I do. What I’m about to ask will sound a little strange, but hear me out.”
She didn’t say anything, but drew back, looking like there wasn’t a chance she’d help him.
“I want a swab of DNA, to compare against Rachel’s mother’s. And I’d appreciate something personal from your mother. Did you keep a hairbrush or—”
“Why?”
“I’m betting you must be related to the Ramseys somehow. For that matter, let’s get something from your father, too.”
To Heather’s credit, she didn’t pretend surprise or indignation. “And if I am, what does that prove?”
Tom opened his mouth, tried to say something and shut it again. She was right. What did it prove? It might prove that Heather Graves was related to the Ramseys, but it wouldn’t get him any closer to finding Rachel. Unless Heather was a master liar and knew where Rachel was.
His eyes narrowed, but before he could say another word, she said, “No,” scooted out of the booth and headed toward the door. He started to follow, but Maureen plopped his bill down.
He wound up paying not only for his hamburger and coffee, but also for her food and Father Joe’s.
It had been that kind of day.
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