could tell him, confess everything...well, almost everything. He already knew that she’d been adopted and hadn’t been able to locate her birth parents. If she explained to him her suspicions about being Heather Brice, maybe he could help her. Maybe he’d share the case files with her.
She pivoted away from the window. If she told him that now, he’d suspect her of spinning a tale to get her hands on the information he had. She wouldn’t go down that road with him again.
Sighing, she swept the remote control from the credenza and aimed it at the TV, turning it on.
With the local TV news blaring in the background, she got ready for bed. Snug in a new pair of flannel pajamas she’d bought for the trip, she perched on the edge of the bed to watch the news. She hadn’t made the local news—not yet.
She switched the channel to a sitcom rerun and flipped back the covers on her bed. Her heart slammed against her chest and she jerked back as she stared at the head of the Libby Love frog positioned on the white sheet, his miner’s hat at a jaunty angle.
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