photo I showed you, my sister made sure it was posted on all the missing-persons websites. She’s gotten dozens of tips, too many to physically track down every one herself.”
Tara wanted to find out more about the websites, but it was more important to convince the stranger he was wrong about her.
“I’ve lived in Wawpaney my whole life,” Tara said. “I’ve never even been to the Midwest.”
He tilted his head. “Are you sure? Most people don’t have memories from their first few years.”
Tara had only one, although it had never made any sense. She’d gotten good at banishing the memory, if that were truly what it was. It had been years since she’d awakened abruptly from a deep sleep with her body shaking and tears dampening her cheeks.
“I’m sure I wasn’t abducted.” She managed to laugh. “The neighbors would have been awfully suspicious if a three-year-old suddenly joined the family.”
Before he could respond, she added, “Besides, I’ve seen baby photos of myself. You have, too, right?”
A corner of his mouth kicked up. He seemed to relax. “I’m from a family of six,” he said. “My mom takes so many photos she should have bought stock in Kodak.”
“My mother, too.” Tara was relieved the hand that still held out the paper to him wasn’t shaking. This time he took it.
“Sorry to have bothered you,” he said. “My sister warned me the lead probably wouldn’t pan out. Most of them go nowhere. But you’ve gotta admit, that photo looks an awful lot like you.”
“I’m sure age progression isn’t an exact science.” Tara needed to get away from him as soon as she possibly could. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get to school. Class is starting soon.”
“Of course.” He seemed about to say more, but she didn’t give him a chance, passing by him and continuing on the cracked, narrow sidewalk to Wawpaney Elementary.
She was fortunate that Jack DiMarco wasn’t the private investigator in his family. Otherwise, it might not have been so easy to convince him she wasn’t the grown-up version of Hayley Cooper. She forced herself to act normally and walk at a measured clip, resisting the urge to glance back to see if he was still studying her.
She couldn’t afford to do anything that would make him suspect that most of what she’d just told him were lies.
* * *
MOST DINERS THAT LOOKED like old railroad cars were actually cleverly designed fakes. Or so Jack had heard. The place with the silver exterior where he stopped for breakfast just outside Wawpaney, though, had to be an exception.
The inside was long and narrow, with a counter lined with stools running the length of one side of the diner. Opposite the counter were booths with windows that overlooked the parking lot. It seemed as though the floor rumbled when Jack stepped inside, as though the railroad car still had some miles left in it. That could have been his runaway imagination, though.
He took a seat at the end of the counter and looked over a plastic menu with fingerprint smudges—it ran the gamut from breakfast to dinner. Home-cooked entrées, tried-and-true favorites and dishes with fresh ingredients populated the menu. The scent of bacon and eggs filled the air.
The place was nearly full, although it probably held no more than thirty or thirty-five customers. Conversational voices blended together to create a continuous hum.
Jack looked up from the menu, surprised that a waitress was standing across the counter from him, waiting. Her curly black hair framed a round, friendly face. She was so short they were almost at eye level, although he was sitting down.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t notice you there.”
“You must be a tourist.” She balanced one hand on her hip. “The locals all know the menu by heart.”
“The food must be good here,” he said.
“The best, especially the fresh seafood and homemade desserts. The lemon meringue pie is to die for,” she said. “But our breakfasts are nothing to sneeze at, either. Where you from?”
“Kentucky,” he said.
“You don’t sound it.”
“Lexington, not Appalachia,” he said. “It’s pretty urban, with lots of transplants.”
“What brings you here?”
“Road trip,” he said.
“Business or pleasure?”
His waitress asked so many questions, she reminded him of his two sisters, who never hesitated to poke around in his business.
“Both,” he said, hastening to ask a question of his own before she could fire off another one. “Tell me, do you know anything about Tangier Island?”
“Sure,” she said. “Never been myself, but I hear it’s real tranquil, though maybe not so much as it used to be on account of tourism. No cars—just bikes and golf carts.”
Tangier sounded like the kind of place people with high-stress jobs and expendable cash vacationed. No wonder Robert Reese had chosen it.
“Any idea how to get there?” Jack asked.
“Easiest way is the ferry in Onancock, which is up the coast a ways along the Chesapeake,” she explained. “Or you could always charter a boat. It’s not a long trip. Tangier’s only ten or so miles off the coast.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I appreciate the information.”
“Have you decided on breakfast?” she asked.
“What do you suggest?”
“You can’t go wrong with the creamed chipped beef or the sausage gravy biscuit. They come with either grits or home fries.”
What the hell, Jack thought. When on the Eastern Shore of Virginia, eat as the natives do. “I’ll have the creamed beef with grits. And coffee.”
“Black?”
“Two creams, two sugars.”
She flashed him a grin. “Interesting.”
“Why is that interesting?” he asked.
She leaned over the counter. “It means you have a sweet side.”
He thought of the glare he’d adopted as the top relief pitcher for the Owensboro Mud Dogs, a minor league baseball team in his home state that for many was the last stop before reaching the big time. Jack had gotten called up to the majors late in the season twice over the course of his career, both for brief stints. His goal was to make the third time stick.
“Not everyone would agree with that,” Jack said.
“Then they’re not looking hard enough.” She raised her dark brows and left the counter to take another order.
His
