were, giggling their heads off and generally driving Hank nuts, when Cal showed up, somewhere around four. The door was open, so Hank saw his brother squat down to play with the dog—Cal had always had a way with animals, which is what made him such a damn good horse breeder, Hank supposed—exchange a few words with the girls, then stand and head for the office. Hank also saw a bunch of albums and envelopes and what-all tucked under his brother’s arm.
Oh, Lord.
“Hey.” Wearing that cocky grin of his, Cal walked into the office, plunked his load onto the counter. “You got a dog?”
“Yeah, I got a dog. So?”
“Kinda small, don’t you think?”
“It’ll grow. What’s all this?”
“Ten minutes, Hank. That’s all I’m asking. Just go through it, keep whatever you want, I’ll take back the rest.”
“I don’t want any of it.”
Cal crossed his arms, his gaze almost fierce underneath his hat brim. “This is your family history, dammit,” he said, keeping his voice low. “It’s not gonna kill you to keep a couple mementos of it. And you wouldn’t believe some of the stuff I found up in the attic. Stuff I sure don’t remember ever seeing. Take this, for instance…” He riffled through the pile and extracted a tattered brown envelope, out of which he pulled an old tinted photograph in a cardboard photographer’s frames. Cal looked at it for a moment, then turned it around so Hank could see. “You ever see this before? It’s a picture of Mama when she was fourteen. I only ever knew her with gray hair, so this was a shock….”
It was a shock, all right. But for very different reasons. While Hank stood there, paralyzed, staring at the photograph, Blair came in, hugging the pup to her chest. “Libby’s gotta go home, and I said I’d walk her, so is it okay to leave the puppy here with you? I think he’s getting pretty tired.”
Slowly, Hank forced himself to look up from the photograph…into a face uncannily like the image in his hand. As he did, he caught Cal’s frown at his obviously flummoxed expression, then saw his brother’s gaze dart to Blair. Hank finally found his voice, told Blair, sure, go ahead and leave the pup. After she left, Cal pried the photo from Hank’s grip. “Holy sh—” He looked at Hank, confusion swimming in his eyes. “That is totally weird…Hank? Hey—you okay?”
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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