professional. You must have some theory.”
Mitch sighed and heaved his other foot atop the table, crossing his legs. “Everything about this case points to Claire Fletcher being dead. Long gone.”
Connor hunched forward, elbows on his knees, head turned to look at Mitch. “You don’t think she is,” Connor stated. A flutter of excitement took hold of his stomach. “Tom told me there were others.”
Mitch looked at him sharply. Farrell was a professional. Connor recognized that he carried with him the uneasy burden of all the men and women like him who worked horrific cases of murder, violence, and unexplained disappearances. When you dealt with families of victims or even the victims themselves, it was often necessary to hide your gut instincts behind a cool façade of neutrality. You didn’t want to lend too much hope to the loved ones of victims of violent crimes.
Farrell had remained carefully neutral about the subject of Claire Fletcher for so long, he wasn’t immediately able to discuss his own theories.
“The others?” Mitch echoed carefully.
“Three men in the last eight years. All approached by a woman claiming to be Claire Fletcher. All given the Archer Street address, same as me,” Connor said.
Mitch said nothing for almost a solid minute. Connor waited. Then the older man asked, “You really didn’t sleep with her?”
Not what Connor was expecting, but he answered nonetheless. “No,” he said. “Well, yes, I literally slept with her, but we didn’t have sex.”
Mitch’s eyebrows rose. “You slept with her?”
Connor hid his irritation by finishing off his beer. “Yeah. I went to sleep with her.”
Mitch turned his whole body toward Connor. “Where?”
“What?”
“Where did you, ah, go to sleep with her?”
Connor’s brow wrinkled. “My bed. Where else? What’s this got to do with anything?”
Mitch stared at him, awed. “You’re not like the others at all. But why? Why you? Why now?”
“What are you talking about?” Connor demanded.
“What did she look like?” Mitch asked instead, his more practical manner returning.
“She looked exactly like the picture of Claire Fletcher that I saw at Archer Street, only older, longer hair and...,” Connor broke off, deciding it best not to try to explain about her eyes. “I know it was the same person,” he concluded instead.
Mitch considered this. Then he asked, “So why are you here?”
“Because I—” Connor began but stopped abruptly.
The shock of the scene at Archer Street and all he’d found out had sent him racing to Mitch’s office with no consideration of why. Claire Fletcher was a ghost to all who’d known her. Connor had spent a single night with a woman he believed in his gut to be exactly who she said she was—Claire Fletcher. Yet the Claire Fletcher had vanished ten years ago without a trace. There was indeed a mystery. But for Connor it was much simpler than that.
“Because I want to see her again,” he said.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Connor went home shortly after nightfall with a moderately thick copy of Claire’s file under his arm. He didn’t bother putting on any lights. Tonight he needed the quiet and the darkness to let the strange events of the day sink in. He plopped down onto the couch without taking his jacket off and watched idly out his front window. The curtains were white, almost sheer, so he could see the occasional car pass or the figure of one of his neighbors walking a dog. He could watch the small square of world beyond his home without being seen.
Faces, conversations, and random words from the day tangled in Connor’s mind. A confusing mass of revelations. He fingered the file under his arm, running his index finger over the corner of the pages. If he got into this, there would be no turning back. Mitch had searched for Claire for ten years with no luck.
But Connor had met Claire, walked through this very room with her, her hand in his. He pictured her long limbs and
Mitch sighed and heaved his other foot atop the table, crossing his legs. “Everything about this case points to Claire Fletcher being dead. Long gone.”
Connor hunched forward, elbows on his knees, head turned to look at Mitch. “You don’t think she is,” Connor stated. A flutter of excitement took hold of his stomach. “Tom told me there were others.”
Mitch looked at him sharply. Farrell was a professional. Connor recognized that he carried with him the uneasy burden of all the men and women like him who worked horrific cases of murder, violence, and unexplained disappearances. When you dealt with families of victims or even the victims themselves, it was often necessary to hide your gut instincts behind a cool façade of neutrality. You didn’t want to lend too much hope to the loved ones of victims of violent crimes.
Farrell had remained carefully neutral about the subject of Claire Fletcher for so long, he wasn’t immediately able to discuss his own theories.
“The others?” Mitch echoed carefully.
“Three men in the last eight years. All approached by a woman claiming to be Claire Fletcher. All given the Archer Street address, same as me,” Connor said.
Mitch said nothing for almost a solid minute. Connor waited. Then the older man asked, “You really didn’t sleep with her?”
Not what Connor was expecting, but he answered nonetheless. “No,” he said. “Well, yes, I literally slept with her, but we didn’t have sex.”
Mitch’s eyebrows rose. “You slept with her?”
Connor hid his irritation by finishing off his beer. “Yeah. I went to sleep with her.”
Mitch turned his whole body toward Connor. “Where?”
“What?”
“Where did you, ah, go to sleep with her?”
Connor’s brow wrinkled. “My bed. Where else? What’s this got to do with anything?”
Mitch stared at him, awed. “You’re not like the others at all. But why? Why you? Why now?”
“What are you talking about?” Connor demanded.
“What did she look like?” Mitch asked instead, his more practical manner returning.
“She looked exactly like the picture of Claire Fletcher that I saw at Archer Street, only older, longer hair and...,” Connor broke off, deciding it best not to try to explain about her eyes. “I know it was the same person,” he concluded instead.
Mitch considered this. Then he asked, “So why are you here?”
“Because I—” Connor began but stopped abruptly.
The shock of the scene at Archer Street and all he’d found out had sent him racing to Mitch’s office with no consideration of why. Claire Fletcher was a ghost to all who’d known her. Connor had spent a single night with a woman he believed in his gut to be exactly who she said she was—Claire Fletcher. Yet the Claire Fletcher had vanished ten years ago without a trace. There was indeed a mystery. But for Connor it was much simpler than that.
“Because I want to see her again,” he said.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Connor went home shortly after nightfall with a moderately thick copy of Claire’s file under his arm. He didn’t bother putting on any lights. Tonight he needed the quiet and the darkness to let the strange events of the day sink in. He plopped down onto the couch without taking his jacket off and watched idly out his front window. The curtains were white, almost sheer, so he could see the occasional car pass or the figure of one of his neighbors walking a dog. He could watch the small square of world beyond his home without being seen.
Faces, conversations, and random words from the day tangled in Connor’s mind. A confusing mass of revelations. He fingered the file under his arm, running his index finger over the corner of the pages. If he got into this, there would be no turning back. Mitch had searched for Claire for ten years with no luck.
But Connor had met Claire, walked through this very room with her, her hand in his. He pictured her long limbs and
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